'  "SF  I-  T-*-»r 

•^y7^—  /• 


SOUVENIR 
VERSE  AND  STORY 


MEMORIAL  OF  FIFTY  YEARS 


J.   E.  A.  SMITH 


Author  of  Taghconic,  The  Poet  Among  the  Hills,  The  History 
of  Pittsfield,  The  Genesis  of  Paper-Making,  Etc. 


"Like  flakes  of  feathered  snow. 
They  melted  as  they  fell." 

— Dry  den. 


SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. 

CLARK  \V.  BRYAN  COMPANY,  PUULISHERS, 
1896. 


Copyrighted  1896, 

by 
J.  E.  A.  SMITH. 


We  are  growing  old — How  the  thought  will  rise 

When  a  glance  is  backward  cast 
Of  some  long  remembered  spot  that  lies 

In  the  silence  of  the  past : 
It  may  be  the  shrine  of  our  early  vows 

On  the  tomb  of  our  early  tears  ; 
But  it  seems  like  a  far-off  isle  to  us 

In  the  stormy  sea  of  years. 

—  Frances  Browne. 


CONTENTS. 

Explanatory  Prologue,        ------          -j 

Scatter  the  Germs  of  the  Beautiful,  -        -        -  -        n 

The  Standpoint,  -  13 

Light  Up,      -        -  -        15 

Sunny  Yale,                                              -        -        -  -         17 

_In  Greylock's  Shadow,        -        -                -        -  -        19 

Green  Hills  of  Taghconic,  -                          -        -  -        20 

On  Onota's  Graceful  Shore.        -                -        -  -        22 

Onota  and  its  Noble,  -------        25 

Our  Fathers'  Church,  -                                         -  -        33 

Our  Ancient  Village  Burial  Ground,  35 

After  the  Knell,    -  38 

Voices  from  Ocean,     -        -  39 

Give  Fancy  Play,  40 

Lay  of  the  Paper  Rag  Cutter,  41 

Our  Charity,  -        45 

She  Hath  Been  Fair,  -  48 

Memories  of  the  Year,         -  -        52 

Nay,  Never  Lightly  Tell  the  Tab,    -        -  -        55 

Now  Crown  the  Conqueror  Time,  56 
Dedicatory   Prologue   at  Opening  of  the   Pittsfield 

Academy  of  Music,  ------        60 

The  Deserted  Ball  Room,  -  65 

Life's  Morning  Stars,  66 

Music  at  the  Twilight  Hour,  68 

The  Vermeil  Lip  is  Victress  Still,                      -  -        69 

Our  Hunting — Morn  at  Eve, 70 

The  Breaking  of  Love's  Dream,        -  71 

A  Valentine,  -        73 

Winter  Elfinry — The  Marvels  of  a  Sleighrid  ,  75 

LYRICAL  PIECES. 

The  Gray  Old  Elm  of  Pittsfield  Park,  85 

The  Old  Elm  of  Pittsfield  Park,        -        -  87 


6  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

King  Greylock's  Mountain  Height,  -        -                -  89 

Wahconah  Falls,  91 

Pinos  Loquentes  Semper  Habemus,  95 

Thanksgiving  Morning  Song,     -  96 

Thanksgiving  Evening  Song,     -                          -        -  98 

A  Christmas  Carol,      ------  100 

Ode  for  Independence  Day,  101 

Reapers'  Harvest  Hymn,    -----  102 

A  Northland  Song,      -------  103 

The  Logger's  Song,             -  104 

A  Song  of  May,   --------  106 

The  Sachem's  Daughter, -  107 

The  Pretty  Rosalie,  108 

Serenade,      ---------  109 

Not  Through  Glory's  Myrtle  Arches,        -                 -  110 

Evening  Hymn,    -        -        -        -  m 

Our  Warrior  World,    -  112 

The  Fairies  of  the  Hills— A  Cantata,  114 

CHILDREN'S  SONGS,    -                              -       -       -  117 

Long,  Long  Ago,      -                                                 -  117 

Childhood's  Home,  -  118 

Vacation  Song,                                                   -        -  119 

God  is  there,     -        -        -                                 -        -  119 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

The  Voyagers,  23 

The  Last  Shadow,  24 

Fair  Cedar  Tree,                                                   -        -  25 

Korner's  Battle  Prayer,  27 

The  Lilies  of  the  Mummel  See,          -        -        -        -  29 

Ivan's  Cross,        -- 32 

Evening  Among  the  Mountains,                -        -  134 

LATIN  TRANSLATION. 

Dulce  Domum,    --------  139 

Sweet  Home,  144 


EXPLANATORY   PROLOGUE. 

This  little  volume,  although  for  the  most  part 
rhythmic  in  form,  is  no  ambitious  attempt  to  claim 
for  the  author  either  the  art  or  the  inspiration  of  a 
poet.  It  is  simply  a  collection  of  verses  written 
during  the  last  fifty  years,  and  most  of  them  pub 
lished  in  one  way  or  another.  To  these  are  attached 
some  scraps  of  prose  which  may  add  to  their  value 
as  mementos  of  the  past,  or  as  connected  with 
interesting  localities.  Many  of  the  verses  were 
elicited  by  circumstances  or  occasions  of  which  they 
have  now  become  souvenirs  for  the  writer  and 
others.  In  the  course  of  a  long  life  of  prose  writing 
and  editorial  work,  there  has  come  to  him  now  and 
then,  although  not  often,  a  thought  or  a  story  which 
it  seemed  could  be  better  treated  in  verse,  and  he 
so  treated  it.  The  lyrical  pieces  are  selected  from 
a  multitude  written  chiefly  to  the  order  of  musical 
publishers  or  composers,  and  which,  having  served 
their  temporary  purpose,  have  for  the  most  part 
been  forgotten.  The  children's  songs  are  inserted 
simply  to  gratify  the  writer's  love  for  the  little  ones. 


8  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AXD  STORY. 

He  trusts  that  his  readers  share  that  affection.  If 
they  do  not,  he  has  no  hope  of  their  indulgence  for 
himself.  The  translations  speak  for  themselves. 
Some  of  them  are  as  literal  as  I  could  make  them 
consistently  with  English  versification  ;  but  there 
are  several  of  which  I  have  not  the  German  originals 
at  hand,  and  I  cannot  recollect  whether  the  transla 
tions  are  free  or  literal.  All  the  verses  in  the  book 
have  either  acquired  a  souvenir  character  from  time, 
or,  as  in  the  one  piece  just  written,  obtain  it  from 
their  themes  ;  and  it  is  primarily  in  that  role  that  I 
here  present  them.  Of  course,  however,  I  should  not 
offer  them  a  second  time  to  the  public  in  any  role, 
if  I  thought  them  entirely  devoid  of  merit.  It  would 
be  an  absurd  affectation  of  modesty  to  pretend  it. 
Many  of  these  verses,  on  their  first  publication,  were 
received  with  generous  favor  by  my  editorial  breth 
ren  of  the  old  newspaper  press,  and  by  other  perhaps 
equally  partial  critics  ;  and  I  may  be  permitted  to 
hope  that  they  may  yet  give  a  little  pleasure  to  some 
new  readers.  Still  it  is  primarily  as  mementos  of 
the  past  that  they  are  now  collected. 

These  last  few  words  mournfully  remind  me  how 
few  remain  of  those  who  would  have  looked  kindly 
on. these  pages  "for  the  sake  of  auld  lang  syne." 
But  I  will  not  bore  you  with  prosing  regiets  thaf 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  9 

what  is  past  is  past,  nor  with  the  vain  plaints  of 
threescore-years-and-ten,  over  the  universal  and 
inevitable.  "That  which  is  without  all  remedy  should 
be  without  all  regard."  Wise  men  wisely  piefer 
Chronicles  and  Revelation  to  Lamentations. 

It  is  better  to  present  even  a  shadowy  picture  of 
the  pleasant  times  that  have  been.  Although  most 
of  those,  to  whom  this  picture  would  have  recalled 
the  memory  of  the  pleasant  things  enjoyed  by  them 
selves  have  passed  to  a  life  of  higher  and  fadeless 
happiness,  their  children  may  welcome  some  of  these 
verses  for  their  sake,  and  many  of  the  younger  gen 
eration  may  prize  them  as  mementos  of  occurrences 
made  familiar  to  them  by  history  or  tradition,  or  as 
connected  with  natural  scenery  which  is  as  beautiful 
for  them  as  it  was  for  those  who  viewed  it  with  me 
in  the  long  ago;  and  for  whose  loveliness  and 
grandeur  my  eyes  are  still  undimmed. 

And  again  :  so  intrinsically  like  is  one  human  life 
to  another  that  what  is  directly  a  souvenir  for  one 
heart  may  by  association  of  ideas  become  inciden 
tally  so  for  many.  Chance  readers  have  told  me  of 
incidents  in  their  lives  which  happened  years  before 
we  met,  and  of  which  I  knew  nothing;  but  whose 
fading  memories  were  agreeably  revived  by  some  of 


io  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AATD  STORY. 

the  verses  here  reprinted,  when  they  met  them  in 
their  flight  through  the  newspapers  as  fugitive 
poetry. 

This  may  serve  for  explanation  and  defence  of 
the  title  I  have  chosen  for  this  little  rhythmic  med 
ley.  To  be  sure,  a  keen-eyed  inspector  of  specks 
may  discover  that,  judging  by  my  souvenirs  of  them, 
some  things  are  memorized  that  are  loo  trivial  for 
commemoration  even  in  this  light  way.  But  what 
is  there  in  God's  universe  of  atoms  which  is  really 
trivial  if  we  but  give  thought  enough  to  find  out 
what  there  is  in  and  around  it  ?  And  even  with 
little  thought  a  heart  with  a  reasonable  modicum  of 
feeling  may  find  something  not  to  be  lightly  for 
gotten  in  that  which  an  inspector  of  specks  would 
pronounce  trivial.  Nevertheless  I  will  confess  that 
a  few  of  these  verses  are  of  so  trivial  a  nature  that 
they  would  not  have  been  given  a  place  here  except 
as  memory-monitors.  In  that  role  now  and  then  a 
reader  may  find  for  his  own  self  as  much  in  them  as 
in  poems  of  more  pretense.  At  any  rate  there  are 
so  few  of  them  that  their  introduction  cannot  give 
much  offense. 

Pittsfield,  Mass.,  September,  1895. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


SCATTER  THE  GERMS  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Scatter  diligently  in  susceptible  minds 
The  germs  of  the  good  and  the  beautiful. 
There  trees  will  spring  from  them,  to  blossom 
'And  bear  the  golden  fruit  of  Paradise. —  German  Poem. 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautiful ; 

By  the  wayside  let  them  fall, 
That  the  rose  may  spring  by  the  cottage  side, 

And  the  vine  on  the  garden  wall. 
Cover  the  rough  and  the  rude  of  earth 

With  a  veil  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  strew  with  the  opening  bud  and  cup 

The  path  of  the  summer  hours. 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautiful 

In  the  holy  shrine  of  home  ; 
Let  the  pure,  the  fair  and  the  graceful  there 

In  their  loveliest  luster  come  ; 
Leave  not  a  trace  of  deformity 

In  the  temple  of  the  heart, 
But  gather  about  its  hearth  the  gems 

Of  nature  and  of  art. 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautiful 

In  the  temples  of  our  God  ; 
The  God  who  starred  the  uplifted  sky 

And  flowered  the  trampled  sod. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

When  he  built  a  temple  for  himself 
And  a  home  for  his  priestly  race, 

He  reared  each  arch  in  symmetry 
And  curved  each  line  in  grace. 

Scatter  the  germs  of  the  beautiful 

In  the  depths  of  the  human  soul ; 
They  shall  blossom  there  and  bear  thee  fruit 

While  the  endless  ages  roll. 
Plant  with  the  pure  and  beautiful 

This  pathway  to  the  tomb, 
And  the  pure  and  fair  about  thy  path 

In  Paradise  shall  bloom. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


THE  STANDPOINT. 

"Give  me  where  to  stand,"  was  the  ancient  pos 
tulate  "  Find  where  to  stand,"  says  modern  dissent. 
"  STAND  WHERE  YOU  ARE,"  said  Goethe,  "  and  move 
the  world."— F.  H.  HEDGE. 


From  thy  heart's  still  chambers  gazing 
On  the  mad,  vain  world  without, 

Longing  Heavenward  to  raise  it, 
Art  thou  still  perplexed  with  doubt  ? 

Seekest  thou  a  standing  place 

Whence  to  raise  thy  fallen  race  ? 

Stay  thee,  brother,  seek  no  further ; 

Stand  and  labor  where  thou  art, 
Know,  there  is  no  standpoint  firmer 

Than  a  true  man's  steadfast  heart; 
Strengthened  by  all  power  above 
Is  thy  spirit's  human  love  ! 

Humble  brother,  cease  repining 
That  thou  canst  not  banish  wrong ; 

Up !  it  is  in  thee  to  crush  it, 

Nought  hath  power  to  make  thee  strong 

Like  the  hidden  links  that  bind 
Thee  to  the  lowest  of  thy  kind  ! 


i4  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Where  the  world's  great  heart  is  beating, 
Wouldst  thou  wield  a  power  divine  ? 

Wouldst  thou  that  its  mighty  throbbings 
Beat  in  unison  with  thine  ? 

Through  the  world's  wide  veins  be  poured, 

The  love  within  thy  bossom  stored  ! 

Ask  no  might  divine,  supernal, 

Strive  as  only  mortal  can, 
Bethink  thee  Who  from  Heaven  descended 

To  be  one  with  mortal  man  : 
So  might  the  Monarch  of  the  skies 
Be  touched  with  our  infirmities. 

Be  thy  zeal  then  meek,  unscornful ; 

Stand  not  from  thy  kind  apart ; 
Find  the  vantage  ground  thou  seekest 

In  a  pure  and  loving  heart : 
There,  brave  brother,  do  thy  best, 
With  our  Father  leave  the  rest ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


LIGHT  UP. 

[The  banks  and  brokers  of  Wall  street  have  found 
that  their  safes  and  vaults  are  better  protected  by  a 
brilliant  illumination  of  gas  around  them  than  by 
massive  window-shutters. — New  York  paper -.] 

Lo,  the  shadows  of  evening,  murky  and  brown, 
Creep  up  through  the  highways  and   lanes  of  the 
town  ; 

Light  up  ! 

Pass  the  word  through  the  marble  arenas  of  pride, 
Pass  the  word  through  the  cellars  where  miseries 
hide ; 

Light  up  ! 

Deeds  that  are  evil  love  the  mantling  of  night, 
Love  the   hiding  of  darkness — not  the  showing  of 
light  ; 

Light  up  ! 

Murder  lurks  low  in  the  by-ways  of  earth, 
And  wicked  things  struggle  to  monstrous  birth; 
Light  up  ! 

Let  the  radiance  flash  on  the  murderers  dirk, 
It  is  dulled  for  the  doing  its  terrible  work  ; 
Light  up ! 


16  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY 

Let  its  crystal  wall  circle  your  coffeis  of  goM, 
They  are  safer  than  cased  in  stone  triple-fold  ; 
Light  up  ! 

And  learn  ye  this  lesson — and  learn  it  aright : 
In  the  soul,  as  the  city,  wrong  fleeth  the  light  ; 
Light  up  ! 

As   the   sinner  shrinks   back  when   the  light  shines 

within, 

From  the  light  in  the  soul  so  shrinketh  the  sin  ; 
Light  up! 

School,  pulpit  and  press — bold  rostrum,  true  tongue, 
Abroad  let  your  radiant  teachings  be  flung  ! 
Light  up  ! 

And  the  evil  that  struggles  to  monstrous  birth 
Shall  die  in  the  soul  ere  it  curses  the  earth  ; 
Light  up  ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  17 


SUNNY  VALE.— A  STORY 

One  sunny  summer  afternoon, 
Fairest  in  laughing,  leafy  June, 
Happiest  man  beneath  Heaven's  dome 
A  farmer  brought  his  young  wife  home ; 
And  as  they  reached  the  mountain's  brow 
And  saw  his  cottage  smile  below, 
He  bade  his  bonnie  bride  mark  well 
How  gaily  there  the  sunshine  fell. 

June  came  again. — A  cradled  child 

Beneath  the  cottage  roof-tree  smiled  : 

So  like  the  light  from  its  blue  eyes 

To  that  which  fell  from  June's  blue  skies, 

Both  seemed  from  the  same  Heaven  to  come 

To  mingle  in  the  farmer's  home. 

Thus  loved  he  to  his  wife  to  praise 

The  luster  of  those  golden  days. 

June  came  again.  —  No  child  was  there  : 
The  cradle  of  its  smiles  was  bare. 
Yet,  though  the  farmer's  face  was  sad, 
The  grace  of  new-found  peace  it  had. 
He  strove  the  mother's  grief  to  calm, 
And  said  the  June  days  brought  a  balm  ; 
For  something  more  than  sunbeams  fell 
From  where  their  child  had  gone  to  dwell. 


i8  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

June  came  once  more. — The  farmer's  wife 
Was  passing  from  this  earthly  life  : 
They  laid  her  in  our  sunniest  glade 
Before  its  frailest  flowers  could  fade. — 
That  year  the  farmer  did  not  mark 
If  earth  or  sky  were  bright  or  dark ; 
Yet  there  the  careless  sunlight  fell 
Gaily  as  if  all  things  were  well. 

June  cometh  now.     From  scenes  the  dead 
Had  left  too  lorn,  the  farmer  fled  ; 
And  strangers  from  his  lonely  hearth 
Dispel  the  gloom  with  household  mirth, 
While  not  a  tone  in  any  voice 
Says  some  have  wept  where  they  rejoice ; 
And  still  the  blithesome  sunshine  falls 
As  gaily  round  those  cottage  walls. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  19 


IN  GREYLOCK'S  SHADOW. 

Where  the  dale  in  Greylock's  shadow  lies, 

A  myriad  streamlets  flow, 
And,  gliding  on  through  grove  and  glade, 

In  braided  beauty  glow. 

How  often  on  their  emerald  banks, 

At  morn  or  sunset's  hour, 
We've  gathered  many  a  pleasant  thought, 

And  many  a  bue-eyed  flower. 

But,  fading  with  the  floweret's  bloom, 

The  pleasant  thought  is  gone, 
And  we  roam  no  more  the  streamlet  side 

At  sunset's  hour  or  morn. 

Yet  the  blushing  wave  as  brightly  now 

Reflects  Aurora's  rose  ; 
And,  on  the  grassy  banks,  anew, 

As  fair  the  violet  grows. 

There's  many  a  laugh  as  glad  as  ours, 

And  many  a  step  as  light, 
And  eyes  as  full  of  hope  are  turned 

On  Greylock's  mountain  height. 

But  not  to  us  comes  back  again, 
The  hope  that  there  was  born, 

And  we  roam  no  more  the  streamlet  side 
At  sunset  hour  or  morn. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


GREEN   HILLS  OF  TAGHCONIC. 

All  sounds  are  hushed  to  silence 

Save  the  insect's  lulling  drone, 
And  the  murmur  of  the  brooklet 

O'er  its  bed  of  pebbled  stone. 
Far  off  the  green  hills  of  Taghconic 

In  the  glow  of  the  sunset  lie, 
Entwined  with  a  chaplet  of  roses, 

And  clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  sky : 
For  round  as  the  bosom  of  beauty 

They  swell  from  the  vale  in  the  west ; 
And  catching  the  rose-hue  of  twilight, 

Seem  blushing  to  be  caressed. 

One  cloudlet  of  silvery  vapor, 

That  awhile  on  the  hill-top  hung, 
Like  a  gossamer  scarf  by  a  maiden 

O'er  her  fair  young  shoulders  flung, 
Is  gone;  for  the  sky,  a  right  lover, 

The  beautiful  wearer  kissed, 
And  drew  to  himself  for  a  token 

The  scarflet  of  silvery  mist. 
But,  lo!  for  the  token  thus  ravished, 

Less  fleeting  is  that  he  bestows  ; 
For,  see,  on  the  brow  of  the  mountain, 

A  star-gemmed  diadem  glows. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

To-night,  by  earth  and  Heaven, 

Alike  is  love-lore  taught, 
And  the  air  with  the  sweetest  wisdom 

Of  happiness  is  fraught. 
Then  come  to  our  tryst  in  the  gloaming, 

Our  tryst  by  the  whispering  beech, 
And  we'll  con  the  lessons  duly 

That  the  sages  of  Nature  teach, 
While,  near  us,  the  clear  Housatonic 

Meandering  flows  to  the  sea, 
And  sounds  with  the  silence  harmonic 

Are  blended  in  melody. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


ON  ONOTA'S  GRACEFUL  SHORE. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  TIMES  THAT  TRIED  MEN'S  SOULS. 

On  Onota's  graceful  shore 
In  heroic  days  of  yore, 
A  noble  dwelt,  as  brave  and  true 
As  ere  chivalric  ages  knew. 
Yet  over  no  proud  castle  walls, 
And  in  no  proud  baronial  halls 
Did  any  scutcheoned  banner  show 
His  lineage  from  the  long  ago. 

This  noble  ruled  a  country  store 

On  fair  Onota's  graceful  shore. 

His  sires,  true  to  man  and  God, 

The  Mayflower's  hallowed  deck  had  trod  ; 

And  looked  he  to  stern  Plymouth  rock 

As  proudly  for  ancestral  stock 

As  though  heraldic  lore  could  trace 

To  Runnymede  his  name  and  race. 

On  gilded  helm,  or  broidered  breast, 
No  men  at  arms  ere  wore  his  crest ; 
But,  ranged  on  fair  Onota's  shore, 
A  hundred  freemen  stoutly  swore 
To  answer,  be  it  day  or  night, 
His  trumpet  call  or  beacon  light, 
And  soldierly  his  word  obey 
On  the  impending  battle-day. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  23 

On  Onota's  fruitful  shore, 
Broad  lands  he  had;  and  more 
In  fertile  regions,  far  and  near. 
To  his  heart  they  had  been  dear : 
Forests  for  parks  ;  fields  for  the  plow  ; 
Lawns  where  stately  homes  rise  now. — 
Had  they  been  beyond  the  sea, 
They  had  been  a  barony. 

I  doubt  this  noble  ere  had  read, 
Or  by  any  chance  heard  said, 
That  English  barons  sold  their  lands 
To  furnish  forth  their  armed  bands 
To  wrench  from  Moslem  rule  the  sod 
Where  once  the  Savior's  feet  had  trod ; 
Yet  said  he,  like  those  knights  of  old, 
"  Take  my  lands  and  give  me  gold  !  " 

"  What  are  lands,  but  to  the  free  ? 

This  gold  shall  guard  our  liberty. 

My  gallant  men  shall  fitly  go 

To  meet  the  proud  and  scornful  foe  : 

As  fitly  clad  and  armed  as  they, 

On  the  swift-coming  battle-day. — 

No  awkward  squad  that  foe  shall  greet 

But  trained  to  give  them  welcome  meet. " 

Thus  armed  and  clad,  they  marched  them  down 
To  drive  the  foe  from  Boston  town. 
The  patriot  hosts  there  gathered  fast ; 
But  many  a  weary  month  was  past 


24  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Ere  Britain's  frigates  sailed  away 
From  Boston's  long  beleaguered  bay ; 
While  soldiers'  hunger  grew  more  keen, 
And  the  camp  larder  passing  lean. 

Up  spake  this  noble  leader  then — 

Great-hearted  leader  of  brave  men. — 

"  My  men,  so  brave  and  true  and  good, 

Shall  lack  no  more  for  daily  food, 

While  I  have  meat  and  grain  in  store 

On  fair  Onota's  fruitful  shore. 

Hither  bring  beeves  and  sheep,  fruit  and  grain  ; 

Nought  from  their  needs  will  I  retain." 

Boston  freed  from  tyrant  sway, 
In  realms  Canadian,  far  away 
Onota's  noble  and  his  band 
Fought  to  free  that  northern  land  : 
Fought,  and  fought  exceeding  well, 
Till  great  Montgomery  bleeding  fell. 
Then  came  disaster  and  defeat ; 
Disgraceful  failure  and  retreat. 

But  no  dishonor  stained  the  name 
Or  blurred  Onota's  noble's  fame. 
Under  most  ignoble  chiefs, 
Burdened  by  a  patriot's  griefs, 
He  died  :  not  by  a  battling  foeman's  blow, 
But  by  the  soldier's  deadlier  foe — 
The  pestilence  whose  viewless  sword 
Buckler  nor  martial  skill  can  ward. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  25 

By  Lake  Champlain's  historic  wave 
They  made  Onota's  patriot's  grave. — 
Grand  champion  of  freedom's  cause, 
His  life  given  in  his  country's  wars, 
His  wealth  to  help  her  sorest  need, 
What  is  this  noble's  grateful  meed  ? 
His  memory  on  Onota's  shore  : 
Only  that  and  nothing  more  ! 

ONOTA    AND    ITS    NOBLE. 

I  believe  it  is  not  now  the  custom  to  print  side 
by  side  with  historical  poems  their  counterparts  or 
originals  in  prose  ;  but  Byron  indulged  freely  in  the 
practice;  and  it  would  seem  that  his  example  might 
be  followed  by  those  whose  verse  stands  even  more 
in  need  of  such  interpretation.  And  so  I  will  avail 
myself  of  the  precedent  so  far  as  the  ballad  of 
Onota's  shore  is  concerned.  The  ballad  and  the 
description  of  its  scenery  are  true  to  the  letter;  as 
I  will  endeavor  to  show  in  the  plainest  prose. 

As  to  the  scene  of  the  story:  When  I  first  saw 
Lake  Onota,  nearly  fifty  years  ago,  it  at  once  struck 
me  as  the  most  beautiful  in  America  of  which  I  had 
any  knowledge,  either  personally  or  by  report.  That 
opinion  I  have  ever  since  maintained  with  ever  in 
creasing  confidence.  And,  of  the  great  number  of 
persons  of  taste,  some  of  them  of  taste  cultivated 
by  wide  travel  in  picturesque  regions — who  have 
viewed  the  lake  and  its  associated  landscapes  with 


26  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AXD  STORY. 

me,  not  one  has  controverted  that  opinion  ;  but  all 
have  assented  to  it  more  or  less  demonstratively  ac 
cording  to  their  several  temperaments :  often  with 
rapturous  expressions  of  delight.  At  the  time  of  my 
first  visit  the  lake  was  surrounded  by  woods  and 
farms,  with  a  few  plain  farmhouses;  and  its  outlines 
were  somewhat  marred  by  rude  or  careless  occupa 
tion.  Now  these  shores  are  chiefly  the  artistically 
arranged  and  skillfully  cared-for  groves  and  ave 
nues,  lawns  and  gardens  attached  to  the  country 
residences  of  Henry  C.  Valentine  and  Wirt  D. 
Walker,  who  have  omitted  nothing  that  good  taste 
and  liberal  expenditure  could  effect  to  make  them 
beautiful.  Other  handsome  places  adorn  the  bor 
ders  of  the  lake  ;  while  much  of  the  remainder  is  a 
spacious  public  park  belonging  to  the  city  of  Pitts- 
field  ;  for  whose  citizens  and  others  it  is  an  attrac 
tive  popular  resort,  commanding  exquisite  views,  and 
every  year  itself  becoming  more  charming.  Thus 
all  that  marred  the  fair  lake's  shores  has  disap 
peared,  or  is  rapidly  disappearing,  giving  place  to 
such  new  charms  as  wealth  and  landscape  art  can 
add  to  those  conferred  by  nature. 

The  many  views  of  the  lake  taken  from  various 
standpoints  by  artists  of  distinction  prove  that  my 
estimate  of  it  is  fully  shared  by  those  most  com 
petent  to  judge.  One  of  these  views,  a  favorite  one, 
looks  northward  to  Greylock,  while  in  the  middle 
ground  in  Lanesboro,  five  miles  away,  Constitution 
Hill  is  seen,  its  crown  shaven  like  a  monk's.  Little 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  27 

more  than  a  mile  to  the  west  are  some  of  the  most 
graceful  dome-like  summits  of  the  Taconics, — a 
mountain  range  nowhere  excelled  in  grace.  In  the 
foreground  rises  a  graceful  knoll  on  which  in  the 
French  and  Indian  wars  stood  a  fort  of  some  im 
portance.  Beyond  this  a  graceful  promontory  ex 
tends  into  the  lake  forming  a  conspicuous  feature  of 
the  graceful  curves  which  on  every  side  compel  the 
admiration  of  all  beholders.  All  is  grace.  Graceful 
is  the  one  word  which  belongs  to  Lake  Onota ; 
while  the  landscape  in  which  it  is  set  is  not  deficient 
in  grandeur. 

The  view  here  presented  shows  Apple-tree  Point, 
a  locality  further  up  the  lake,  full  of  old-time  mem 
ories.  This  view  of  the  lake  is  much  extolled  of 
late. 


Is  as  literally  and  minutely  true  as  the  grace  at 
tributed  to  the  lake  shore  is  without  exaggeration. 
In  all  its  essential  points  this  was  proved  beyond 
question  before  a  committee  of  the  National  House 
of  Representatives  by  Senator  Henry  L.  Dawes 
when  he  was  a  member  of  that  House.  I  will  recite 
the  facts  as  briefly  and  in  as  plain  prose  as  I  can. 

Prior  to  the  year  1775  the  greater  part  of  what 
are  now  the  grounds  of  Wirt  D.  Walker,  was  the 
farm  of  David  Noble, who  had  on  its  southern  border, 
facing  West  street,  a  dwelling,  a  country  store  and 
some  small  manufactory.  In  1774  the  Massachu- 


28  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AA'D  STORY. 

setts  Provincial  Congress  recommended  the  organ 
izing  in  the  several  towns  of  the  Province  of 
companies  of  minute  men  ;  that  is,  men  solemnly 
pledged  to  respond  without  a  single  moment's  delay 
to  any  call  to  arms  which  might  be  rendered  neces 
sary  by  an  expected  raid  of  the  British  troops  in 
Boston,  like  that  which  provoked  the  Battle  of  Lex 
ington  ;  or  by  any  oilier  movement  which  should 
give  the  signal  that  the  confidently  anticipated  con 
flict  of  arms  between  Great  Britain  and  her  American 
colonies  was  commencing.  One  of  the  companies 
formed  in  accordance  with  this  recommendation  of 
the  Congress  was  composed  of  the  flower  of  the 
youth  of  Pittsfield  and  Richmond  ;  and  David  Noble 
was  chosen  its  captain.  Twenty  years  before,  he 
had  been  a  soldier  in  the  French  and  Indian  wars  ; 
and  in  1774  he  was  lieutenant  of  the  ordinary 
Pittsfield  Militia  Company  then  just  reorganized  in 
anticipation  of  early  active  service.  It  was  therefore 
•with  competent  skill  as  well  as  ardent  zeal  that  he 
thoroughly  drilled  his  men. 

On  the  first  of  September,  1774,  a  movement  of 
General  Gage  led  to  a  false  report  that  the  British 
troops  in  Boston  were  firing  upon  Charlestown,  and 
an  alarm  was  sent  throughout  the  Province.  The 
Revolutionary  leaders  probably  availed  themselves 
of  the  exciting  rumor  to  test  the  spirit  of  the  people 
and  the  reliability  of  the  minute  men.  If  so,  the 
result  of  their  experiment  must  have  given  them  con 
fidence  and  courage  ;  for  it  was  said,  although  doubt- 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  29 

less  with  some  little  exaggeration,  that  the  next 
morning  forty  thousand  armed  men  were  on  their  way 
to  defend  or  avenge  their  countrymen.  In  this  affair 
the  Pittsfield  and  Richmond  company  marched  as 
far  as  Westfield  before  the  call  was  countermanded. 
Captain  Noble  went  on  to  the  center  of  Revolution 
ary  opinion  and  operations  around  Boston ;  that 
town  being  practically  a  British  camp,  or  garrison. 
What  he  learned  there  of  the  close  approach  of  the 
great  conflict  and  the  vastness  of  the  issues  involved 
in  it  inspired  him  with  a  generous  patriotic  enthu 
siasm  and  zeal  that  was  manifested  in  a  manner 
which  I  think  is  without  a  parallel  in  Revolutionary 
history. 

Returning  home,  he  sold  two  farms  in  Stephen- 
town,  N.  Y.,  and  one  or  two  in  Pittsfield,  receiving 
pay  for  the  former  at  least  in  gold.  With  the 
money  obtained  by  this  sacrifice  of  his  property 
Captain  Noble  supplied  his  company  with  one  hun 
dred  and  thirty  stand  of  arms  and  uniformed  them 
in  neat  and  substantial  "regimentals;"  their  breeches 
being  of  buckskin  and  their  coats  "  of  blue  turned 
up  with  white."  To  obtain  the  material  for  this,  he 
went  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  also  hired  a  breeches- 
maker,  who  returned  with  him  to  Pittsfield,  where 
the  uniforms  were  made  up,  in  his  own  house,  during 
the  winter. 

The  company  thus  generously  equipped,  drilled 
with  corresponding  zeal,  and  acquired  an  efficiency 
which  it  was  soon  called  to  exercise.  The  news  of 


30  SOUVEi\IR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

the  Battle  of  Lexington,  or  more  probably  the  alarm 
sent  out  by  Paul  Revere  on  the  night  preceding 
what  the  Pittsfield  records  humorously  call  "  the 
excursion  of  the  King's  troops,"  reached  Captain 
Noble's  company  at  noon  on  the  twenty-first  of  April, 
and  at  sunrise  the  next  morning  it  had  joined  the 
regiment  of  Colonel  Patterson  of  Lenox,  to  which  it 
belonged,  and  was  on  its  march  to  Cambridge.  The 
corps  served  well  during  the  siege  of  Boston,  and 
on  one  occasion  received  the  special  commendation 
and  thanks  of  Washington  in  general  orders.  At 
one  time  there  was  an  almost  famishing  scarcity  of 
food  in  Captain  Noble's  camp,  which  he  remedied 
by  sending  orders  to  bring  the  large  supply  of  pro 
visions  in  his  store  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Onota,  and 
to  have  them  hauled  by  his  oxen  which  would 
furnish  beef,  so  that  the  necessities  of  his  soldiers 
were  relieved,  for  a  time  at  least. 

The  British  garrison  having  evacuated  Boston  on 
the  seventeenth  of  March,  Colonel  Patterson's 
regiment  was  sent,  late  in  April,  to  re-enforce  the 
army  then  engaged  in  the  second  year  of  the  at 
tempt  to  conquer  Canada  ;  or,  rather,  to  free  it  from 
British  rule.  The  project  of  this  conquest  was  dear 
to  the  hearts  of  the  Pittsfield  patriots,  with  whom  it 
originated;  and  a  Berkshire  Regiment  had  been 
honorably  prominent  in  the  campaigning  from  the 
first.  All  had  gone  well  until  the  able  and  gallant 
commander,  General  Montgomery,  the  idol  of  the 
Berkshire  soldiery,  on  the  thirty-first  of  December, 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  31 

1775,  fell  while  leading  an  assault  on  Quebec. 
After  that  all  was  indecision  and  incompetence — 
with  a  possibility  of  treachery  in  one  quarter :  for 
Pittsfield's  arch-enemy,  the  traitor  Arnold,  was  one 
of  the  commanders.  There  was  a  little  sharp  fight 
ing,  in  which  they  took  part,  after  the  arrival  of 
Patterson's  regiment ;  but  early  in  May  Bnrgoyne 
reached  Quebec  with  a  large  force  for  its  defence. 
The  Americans  were  compelled  to  retire  from  before 
that  city  and  soon  to  abandon  Canada  entirely.  All 
that  dash  and  enthusiasm,  inspired  by  a  reasonable 
hope  of  great  results — in  spite  of  imperfect  discipline, 
meager  numbers  and  the  scantiest  appointments — 
had  enabled  the  army  of  1775  to  win,  was  lost  in  a 
few  brief  weeks  of  1776. 

The  remnant  of  the  retreating  force  reached 
Crown  Point  in  June  in  a  state  of  demoralization 
which  is  vividly  depicted  as  follows  in  a  letter  of 
July  7,  from  John  Adams,  who  then  visited  it : 

"Our  army  at  Crown  Point  is  an  object  of 
wretchedness  enough  to  fill  a  humane  mind  with 
horror ;  disgraced,  defeated,  discontented,  dispirited, 
diseased,  naked,  undisciplined,  eaten  up  with  vermin; 
no  clothes,  beds  or  blankets ;  no  medicine ;  no 
victuals  but  salt  pork  and  flour.  I  hope  that  meas 
ures  will  be  taken  to  cleanse  our  army  at  Crown 
Point  of  smallpox." 

Captain  Noble  had,  on  the  first  of  July  written 
thus  :  "  Our  army  is  very  much  distressed  by  reason 
of  the  smallpox.  We  have  had  four  thousand  sick 


32  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

at  one  time.  The  distress  of  our  sick  is  such  that 
I  cannot  paint  it  out  by  pen  and  ink.  *  *  *  All 
my  companions  have  had  it." 

He  had  himself  had  the  smallpox,  and  supposed 
that  he  had  recovered ;  but  he  died  from  the  second 
ary  effects  of  the  dread  disease  shortly  after  his 
letter  was  written  ;  and  he  was  buried  on  the  shore 
of  Lake  Champlain. 

Such  is  the  plain  unvarnished  tale  of  the  generous, 
truehearted  and  gallant  noble  of  Lake  Onota's 
graceful  shore.  Is  it  not  a  memory  worthy  a 
souvenir  ? 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  33 


OUR  FATHERS'  CHURCH. 

Our  fathers'  church — this  gray  old  church 

That  stands  on  the  oak-crowned  bill ; 
What  visioned  things  this  twilight  brings 

Its  ruined  porch  to  fill ; 
How  forms  will  throng  from  slumbers  long 

In  memory's  chambers  dim  ; 
How  music  flows  whose  sweet  death-close 

Passed  into  Heaven's  hymn. 
Oh  tender  memories  that  dwell 

Around  these  time-stained  walls, 
The  rapt  heart,  answering  to  your  spell, 

All  vanished  things  recalls. 


'Mid  this  oak  wood,  that  gray  church  stood 

In  Sabbath  hours  of  old  ; 
Its  spire  arose  through  winter  snows, 

And  summer  clouds  of  gold. 
No  silver  chime  tolled  holy  time  ; 

No  rolling  organ  pealed  ; 
No  sun's  rich  beams,  in  mellowed  gleams, 

Fell  round  us  as  we  kneeled ; 
But  down  those  aisles,  with  quiet  smiles, 

Our  white-haired  fathers  came, 
And,  as  we  knelt,  our  hearts  we  felt 

Fired  by  their  spirit's  flame. 


34  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STOR} . 

That  dear  old  shrine  !  not  all  divine 

The  early  joys  it  knew, — 
For  oft  we  made  its  ample  shade 

Our  summer  rendezvous ; 
And  oft  the  flood  of  youth's  hot  blood, 

Matched  with  the  wintry  blast; 
What  starry  nights,  in  slippery  flights, 

We  down  yon  hill  sped  fast. — 
There  still,  in  June's  sweet  afternoons, 

We  lie  in  mood  serene, 
And  half  of  shade  our  reveries  braid, 

And  half  of  fairest  sheen. 

That  green-sloped  lawn  !  at  flush  of  dawn, 

Or  gentler  fall  of  even, 
With  faltering  word — more  guessed  than  heard, 

Fond  vows  have  there  been  given. 
The  light  is  gone  from  eyes  that  shone ; 

The  fire  from  hearts  aflame  : — 
Nay!  hide  it  now,  if  perjured  vow 

Hath  helped  their  glow  to  tame  ; 
Young  hearts  meet  yet,  where  lovers  met 

At  twilight  years  ago, 
And  deem  it  well,  old  joys  to  tell, 

And  not  the  olden  woe. 

Yon  gray  old  church,  that  stands  apart, 

Deserted — half  o'erthrown — 
It  hath  all  power,  in  this  still  hour, 

To  summon  what  hath  flown. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  35 

A  costlier  fane — God's  fitter  shrine, 

They  say  our  feet  have  found  ; 
And  where  our  sires  lit  altar  fires, 

No  more  is  holy  ground. 
But  pride  ne'er  bows,  nor  passion  stills, 

As  when  we  wander  there  ; 
For  holiest  consecration  fills 

Our  Fathers'  house  of  prayer ! 


OUR   ANCIENT  VILLAGE  BURIAL  GROUND. 

Amid  our  new  and  bustling  town, 
The  ancient  village  graveyard  lies, 

Its  paths  with  broken  marbles  strewn, 
O'er-wept  by  no  fond  mourner's  eyes ; 
Its  olden  limits  half  o'ergrown 

By  grim  brick  walls  that,  blank  and  bare, 

Out  on  the  trampled  hillocks  glare. 

The  schoolboy  here  with  noisy  zest 

Pursues  his  sport;  nor  checks  his  mirth 

To  fancy  that  the  shadows  rest 
More  darklyathan  on  other  earth ; 
Yet  slow,  sad  feet  each  turf  have  prest, 

And — water  blessed  of  sorrow's  God — 

Love's  tears  have  hallowed  every  clod. 


36  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Here  now  funereal  tears  ne'er  flow; 

The  weepers  weep  not  where  they  wept, 
The  swelling  tide  of  human  woe 

Beyond  the  olden  grief  hath  swept. 

Of  those  who  died  so  long  ago, 
The  sculptured  marble  o'er  their  graves 
Only  a  strange,  vague  memory  saves. 

Yet  sometimes  off  a  crumbling  stone 
The  garrulous  graybeard  scans  a  name, 

And  tells  the  listener  it  was  one 
That  had  its  little  hour  of  fame  ; 
That,  for  some  public  service  done 

Was  by  the  country  folk  revered  ; 

Or  for  some  austere  power  was  feared. 

The  rose  is  gone  whose  gentle  bloom 
Showed  dust  somewhat  more  dear  to  love, 

Than  that  whose  proud  and  stately  tomb, 
The  colder  marble  gleamed  above  : 
And  men  may  muse  if  ghastlier  doom 

The  broken  tomb  of  greatness  shows, 

Or  beauty's  with  its  uptorn  rose. 

Awhile  yon  little  copse  yet  stands  : 

'Twas  planted,  one  long-vanished  year, 

By  those  who,  seeking  far-off  lands, 
Buried  their  richest  treasures  here. — 
They  deemed,  like  harps  in  spirit  hands. 

These  wind-swept  trees  would  long  complain  ; 

But  not  how  lorn  would  be  their  strain. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AATD  STORY.  37 

And  thus  our  ancient  burial  place 
Within  its  shrinking  borders  holds 

But  here  and  there  a  fading  trace 
Of  those  whose  dust  its  dust  enfolds. 
The  ranks  of  life  advance  apace  : 

The  majesty  of  Death  in  vain 

Keeps  ward  with  all  his  spectral  train. 

Within  this  ancient  burial  ground, 
The  fathers  rest  in  slumbers  deep, 

As  heedless  of  the  turmoil  round 

As  the  mad  crowd  of  their  sweet  sleep 
Yet  hath  the  reverent  muser  found, 

The  grave  of  Eld  hath  even  here, 

Grand  voices  for  the  willing  ear. 


38  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AA'D  STORY. 

AFTER  THE  KNELL. 

Hie  quiescit  qui  nunquam  quievit. 

Here  then  where  willows  sigh  around, 

Worn  one,  thou  sleepest  well : 
Thy  heart  of  fire  at  length  hath  found 

Its  only  soothing  spell. 
Thou'lt  rest ;  best  lullaby  yon  bell's  slow  chime 

That  pealed  for  thee  the  evening  song  of  time. 

Each  clarion  hope  that  roused  thy  youth 

Hath  ceased  its  trumpet  clang. 
Love's  lyre  is  stilled ;  and  stilled — sad  sooth — 

Love's  voice  that  sweeter  sang  ; 
Thou'lt  rest ;  thine  ear's  quick  sense  so  cold  and  dull 

Though  Myra  sang,  she  could  nor  fire  nor  lull. 

Each  phantom  gleam  thy  feet  pursued 

In  calmest  night  expires  ; 
No  more  for  thee  shall  be  renewed 

Their  soul-deceiving  fires : 
Blest  lullaby  yon  bell's  slow  chime 

That  sang  for  thee  the  evening  hymn  of  time. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  39 


VOICES  FROM  OCEAN. 

Comes  there  no  voice  upon  the  landward  breeze — 
No  blessed  tidings  in  the  sound  of  seas  ? 
Far  rolls  our  lay — echo  its  call  prolongs ; 
Comes  there  to  shore  no  answer  to  our  songs  ? 
List,  list  again  !  oh,  listen  with  your  heart ! 
Fancy  may  yet  some  joyous  thrill  impart ! 

Look  o'er  yon  wave  ;  along  its  whitening  crest. 
What  gleams  afar  in  light  and  beauty  drest  ? 
Doth  our  lost  bark  again  come  wandering  home  ? 
Vainly  we  dream, — 'tis  but  the  flashing  foam. 
Yet  gaze  again  ;  shine,  star  of  Hope,  once  more 
Compel  the  waste  our  loved  ones  to  restore  ! 

Thus  we  look  out  across  the  wildering  waves, 

And  claim  our  clear  ones  from  their  far-off  graves  ; 

Thus  wildly  chide  the  ocean's  rocky  bed 

That  coldly  clasps  our  bosom-cherished  dead. 

In    vain !    yet   who   the   impassioned    dream   would 

break, 
And  unto  long,  dull,  hopeless  agony  awake  ? 

Thus  we  look  out  across  Life's  wildering  sea, 
And  pray  for  that  we  know  may  never  be  ; 
Thus  do  we  sit  and  list  at  even  fall, 
Waiting  for  tones  we  know  are  silent  all ; 
Yet  coldest  Reason,  spare  our  dreams  thy  chill 
Till  thou  their  place  with  better  radiance  fill ! 


40  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


GIVE  FANCY  PLAY. 

"  Halloo  !  my  Fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  stray  ?  "—Old  Pcetn. 

Down  the  long  path  thro'  the  Future  that  lies, 

Let  Fancy  stray ! 
Fair  hills,  o'er  fair  valleys,  in  fair  vistas  rise, 

Joy-lighted  to-day ; 
'Tis  beyond  them  life's  night-dews  in  teardrops  shall 

fall, 

When  the  gloaming  of  age  casts  its  shade  over  all. 
Will  the  dis-gilded  landscape  your  bosom  enthrall 

When  the  twilight  grows  gray  ? 

Whence  shall  the  darkness  enshadow  your  brow  ? 

Let  Fancy  say  ! 
Which  of  your  treasures  are  marked,  even  now, 

With  the  sign  of  decay  ? 

Sunflashing  your  tresses  now  float  on  the  air ; 
What  are  the  sorrows  shall  silver  that  hair  ? — 
Shall  fierce  joy,  oh  rare  blusher,  pang'd  pain,  or  dull 
care 

Pale  your  rose-tint  away  ? 

Sunny  or  dark  be  the  wing  that  she  plume, 

Give  Fancy  play ! 
What  are  the  flowers  whose  summerly  bloom 

Shall  be  sweet  round  your  way ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  41 

Where  on  your  pathway  shall  memory  fling 

Light  round  the  spots  where  your  heart's  love  shall 

cling  ? 
Where  are  the  founts  whence  your  tear-drops  shall 

spring  ? 

Would  Fancy  but  say  ! 


LAY  OF  THE  PAPER-RAG  CUTTER. 

Souvenirs  of  many  a  life, 
Shreds  with  many  a  mystery  rife, 
Odds  and  ends  from  many  lands 
To  the  rag  girl's  busy  hands, 
Torn  and  soiled,  are  hither  brought, 
Waking  many  a  curious  thought, 
As,  with  wondering  guess  and  dream, 
She  rends  the  web  and  rips  the  seam. 

This — the  embroidered  emblems  show — 

Wrapped,  as  in  folds  of  heaven's  own  snow, 

A  child  as  pure,  when  Luxury's  heir 

Was  vowed  to  Heaven  with  rite  and  prayer. 

Grew  he  as  pure  as. robe  and  vow  ? 

Or  world-stained  as  these  shreds  are  now  ? 

Nay;   whatsoe'er  we  know  or  dream, 

We  rend  the  web  and  rip  the  seam. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

This  :     Beneath  its  virgin  white, 
On  some  far-off  wedding  night, 
A  bride's  heart  beat  as  pure  and  glad 
As  the  bright  vesture  that  her  clad. — 
Dwells  that  heart  still  secure  in  bliss  ? 
Or  trampled,  torn  and  stained,  like  this  ? 
Ah,  whatsoe'er  we  know  or  dream, 
We  rend  the  web  and  rip  the  seam. 

This  :     By  stranger's  fingers  bound 
To  the  soldier's  gaping  wound, 
It  drank  the  life-blood  of  the  brave, 
Destined  to  an  unknown  grave. — 
His  name  ;  is  it  saved  in  the  saved  land, 
Or  cast  away,  like  this  stained  band  ? 
Nay,  whatsoe'er  we  know  or  dream, 
We  rend  the  web  and  rip  the  seam. 

This :     Age  on  age  hath  passed  away, 
With  conqueror  after  conqueror's  sway 
Since  first  it  swathed  a  mummied  thing 
That  once  perchance  had  been  a  king. — 
The  thing  itself  hath  food  supplied 
For  Arab  fires  or  Savan's  pride  ; 
And  whatsoe'er  we  know  or  dream, 
We  rend  the  web  and  rip  the  seam. 

But  what  boots  it  to  surmise 
Tales  that  with  each  fragment  rise  ? 
Beggar's  tatters,  robes  of  state, 
Fashion's  fripperies  out  of  date. 


SOUVENIR  I'ERSE  A. YD  STORY.  43 

Widow's  garments,  worn  and  thin, 
Tawdry  gauds,  the  garb  of  sin  ; 
All  are  hither  mingled  brought 
With  a  thousand  fancies  fraught ; 
And  whatsoe'er  we  know  or  dream, 
We  rend  the  web  and  rip  the  seam. 

All  heedless  of  their  first  estate, 

Commingled  in  one  common  fate, 

In  shapeless  piles  —the  robes  of  pride, 

Rags,  scant  gaunt  squalor's  form  to  hide, 

Priestly  vestments,  gauds  of  sin, 

(  Their  conflict  o'er  men's  souls  to  win) 

The  garbs  of  joy,  the  garbs  of  woe, 

Hence  to  the  vat  of  cleansing  go — 

Earth-befouled,  their  old  life  spent ; 

Into  countless  shreddings  rent. 

Thence  they  shall  come  forth  again 

Without  tinge  of  blot  or  stain, 

Purged  by  cunning  alchemy 

Into  spotless  purity. 

Crushed  and  pressed  with  iron  strength, 

Yea,  they  shall  come  forth  at  length, 

Fit  in  their  new  estate  to  bear 

Truth's  purest  thought,  Love's  purest  prayer. 

Then,  whatsoe'er  we  know  or  dream, 

O  rend  the  web  and  rip  the  seam. 

Pure  once  as  hues  that  them  bedight 
In  token  of  fair  souls  as  white, 


44  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Perchance,  ere  life's  dread  march  was  o'er, 
Some  soiling  came  to  those  who  wore 
(Such  things  are  told  in  many  a  tale) 
The  christening  robe,  the  bridal  veil, 
The  soldier's  plume,  the  Egyptian  crown. 
Perchance  they  to  the  grave  went  down, 
Sin-soiled  in  soul,  with  crushed,  rent  hearts, 
Pierced  through  with  guilt's  envenomed  darts. 
What  then  ?     Is  there  no  alchemy  divine, 
In  Heaven  no  cleansing  power  benign, 
That  the  sin-soiled  again  may  be 
Restored  to  pristine  purity  ? 
Fails  then  God's  all-embracing  might 
In  power  to  wash  all  stained  souls  white, 
And  from  His  vat  of  cleansing  raise 
Pure  hearts  whereon  to  write  His  praise  ? 
As  thus  we  muse  and  thus  we  dream, 
We  rend  the  web  and  rip  the  seam. 


SOUVE^7IR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  45 


OUR  CHARITY. 

"Judge  not  thy  brother,"  saith  the  Christ, 

"  Lest  thine  the  doom  thou  givest; 
If  (Jod  were  swift  in  wrath  thou  diest, 

He  pities  and  thou  livest. 
For  thine  own  guilt  let  grief  begin, 

Another's  fault  deferring ; 
Let  him  among  you  free  from  sin, 

The  first  condemn  the  erring." 

The  Christ  hath  said,  and  we  reply — 

"  See,  Lord,  our  guilty  brother  ! 
The  sin  that  crieth  to  the  sky 

Belongeth  to  another." 
Forgetful  that  for  us  the  sword 

By  grace  alone  delayeth, 
We  murmur  that  the  righteous  Lord 

So  long  his  vengeance  stayeth. 

We  try  the  reins,  we  search  the  heart, 

We  doom  the  high  and  lowly ; 
Our  sin-blind  eyes  assume  the  part 

Of  Judgment,  as  the  Holy. 
We  see  our  neighbor's  close  intent, 

We  grasp  his  inmost  feeling — 
Scant  cloak  of  charity  is  lent 

His  guiltiness  concealing ! 


46  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

The  poor  man  of  the  rich  man's  pride, 
And  miser  greed,  complaineth, 

And  crieth,  "  Thou  for  all  who  died, 
This  man  thy  child  disdaineth." 

The  rich  man,  in  life's  Sabbath  pause, 
For  pauper  error  prayeth, 

And,  most  of  all  God's  holy  laws, 

"  Thou  shalt  not  steal,"  he  saj'eth. 

The  iron  saint,  of  visage  stern, 

Frowns  on  all  joyous  laughter, 
And  prays  that  pleasure's  toils  may  earn 

An  endless  woe  hereafter. 
The  galliard,  gay  and  debonair, 

All  saintly  words  deriding, 
Counts  them  but  Pharisaic  prayer, 

And  Puritanic  chiding. 

The  foe  beholds  from  wisdom's  way, 

His  foeman's  footsteps  vary, 
And  marks  each  devious  step  astray, 

As  hunter  marks  his  quarry, 
But  while,  with  gloating  gaze  intent ; 

He  follows  all  unheeding, 
He  deemeth  not  his  feet  are  bent 

Upon  the  same  misleading. 

And  friend  marks  friend  with  jealous  eye, 
Some  curious  plan  devising, 

Each  fault  and  foible  to  espy, 
The  better  by  surprising. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  47 

The  tortured  bosom  feels  the  gaze 

Of  friendship  on  it  burning, — 
Perchance  the  seeker  goes  his  ways, 

No  happier  for  his  learning. 

And  each  frail  judge,  presumption  strong 

Of  frail  material  weaving, 
Is  sure  to  do  his  neighbor  wrong; 

Mayhap  past  all  retrieving. 
Some  prayer-told  plea,  unheard  by  man, 

Some  saving  thought  unheeded, 
Our  human  weakness  fails  to  scan, 

For  Godlike  judgment  needed. 

Oh  Thou,  whose  eye  alone  can  reach 

The  bosom's  inmost  feeling, 
To  us  our  secret  errors  teach  ; 

Self  to  itself  revealing. 
Thy  word  is  just,  Thy  judgment  sure, 

Thy  glance  all-comprehending  ; 
Search  Thou  our  hearts,  and  make  them  pure, 

Thy  grace  upon  us  sending. 

Oh,  Thou  who  givest  every  grace, 

Give  us  that  grace  abiding, 
That  love  may  all  our  hate  efface, 

Our  neighbor's  weakness  hiding. 
Plant  the  sweet  flower,  Charity, 

Deep  in  the  hearts  within  us, 
And  let  its  precious  perfume  be 

A  charm  for  Heaven  to  win  us  ! 


48  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


SHE  HATH  BEEN  FAIR. 

Haggard,  withered  and  gaunt,  she  sat  crooning  by 
the  churchyard  path ;  her  thin  white  hair  ruffled 
by  the  evening  breeze ;  her  long,  almost  rleshless 
fingers  clutching  convulsively  the  coarse  grass  that 
grew  rank  above  a  sunken  grave — the  grave  of  a 
child  :  but  they  said  "  she  had  been  fair." 

Mid  sunken  graves  she  sits,  alone  ; 

A  wan  and  worn  and  haggard  crone, 

With  strange-set  eyes  whose  cavernous  glare 

All  joy  hath  flown  : 
And  yet,  they  say  "  she  hath  been  fair." 

At  rarest  feasts  her  praises  rung, 
While  raptured  men  around  her  clung  : 
For  love  himself  had  made  his  lair. 

Young  poets  sung — 
Amid  the  mazes  of  her  hair. 

If  that  the  fond,  enamored  youth 

Have  limned  in  song  no  more  than  truth — 

Man's  frailest  songs  maid's  frailer  charms  outwear — 

I  think  in  sooth 
That  she  was  something  more  than  fair. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  49 

Love's  tremulous  arms,  close-clasped  and  warm, 
Thrilled  with  their  thrill  that  withered  form  ; 
On  those  thin  lips  his  kisses  rained 

In  passion's  storm, 
While  there  he  deemed  his  heaven  was  gained. 

Nay,  more  :  upon  that  shriveled  breast, 
Lulled  by  her  songs  to  balmiest  rest, 
Once  laughed  in  sleep  love's  fairest  child, 

While  she,  half  blest, 
By  fitful  changes,  wept  and  smiled. 

And  now  she  walks  the  world,  alone, 
A  mateless,  childless,  wildered  crone  ; 
Dear  God,  should  memory  ere  recall 

What  she  hath  known, 
How  must  the  ghost  her  soul  appall ! 

That  ghost  must  rise.     Youth  falsely  deems 
The  heart  forgets  its  early  dreams — 
The  loves,  the  prides  with  which  our  May 

So  thickly  teems  — 
Because  the  glossy  hair  grows  gray. 

No,  no  !  even  now,  from  rill  or  bird, 
Yon  wrinkled  creature's  fancy  heard 
The  words  that,  in  her  young  ear  poured, 

Sweet  rapture  stirred, 
When  flattery  long  ago  adored. 


So  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Ah,  little  know  ye  of  the  thought 

From  which  the  dream  of  age  is  wrought, 

The  pangs  with  which  the  glance  it  throws 

O'er  life,  is  fraught, 
Though  calm  as  sunsets  seem  its  close. 

June's  suns  upon  December's  snow 
The  blighting  of  their  splendor  throw. 
Out  of  the  joyous  glittering  past, 

A  sudden  glow, 
Charged  with  some  strange  weird  spell,  is  cast. 

But  she,  with  scared  back-glancing  eyes, 
Naught  but  a  storm-wrecked  past  descries  : 
Tempestuous  joy,  stormy  delight : 

Then  wild-wailed  sighs, 
Tempestuous  gloom  and  rayless  night. 

Till  now — as  from  all  loathsome  harms — 
Maids  who  outstretch  their  round,  white  arms, 
In  charity,  shrink  from  her  grasp, 

Whose  fairer  charms 
Love  held  in  maddest  passion-clasp. 

"The  poor  old  thing  is  crazed,"  they  say  ; 

"When  our  night  revelry  is  gay, 

She  haunts,  anear,  the  cold  street  stones ; 

Mumbling,  all  day 
Above  a  shrunken  grave  she  crones." 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  51 

"  She  crones  o'er  graves  :"  why  should  she  shrink 
From  the  Death-chasm's  crumbling  brink  ? 
Less  dread  the  gleams  from  graves  that  rise. 

In  graves  to  sink, 
Than  loveless  light  from  sunniest  eyes. 

Shield  Thou  the  stricken  of  Thy  rod, 
Shield  from  scorn's  idle  pity,  God, 
And  in  Thy  one  sure  refuge  hide, 

Beneath  the  sod, 
Distorted  beauty  ;  broken  pride. 


52  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


MEMORIES  OF  THE  YEAR. 

"And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees." — As  You  Like  It. 

Dost  remember  the  array 

Of  the  laughing  forest  trees  ; 
In  the  merry  month  of  May 

How  they  quivered  in  the  breeze? 
Quivered  as  a  happy  boy 
Trembles  with  some  new-found  joy. 
How  elastic  where  we  trod 
Sprang  the  mossy,  flowered  sod  ! 
More  elastic  sprang  our  hearts 
From  the  footprints  time  imparts. 

Then  a  myriad  snow-white  blossoms 
Decked  the  cherry,  as  a  maid 
For  her  bridals  is  arrayed. 
Even  the  patriarchal  pine 
Wore  a  grandeur  more  benign, 
Smiling  to  the  Spring's  caress 
As  a  grandsire  is  beguiled 
Into  laughter  by  a  child. 

Dost  remember 

How  the  splendors 
Of  the  spring  began  to  fade 

When  the  cherry's  bridal  blossoms 
Stained  and  scattered  strewed  the  glade? 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  53 

How  in  Summer's  sultry  solstice 
All  the  freshness  left  the  leaf, 

As  the  fresh  fair  cheek  is  withered 
By  life's  sultrier  joy  or  grief? 

O'er  the  gaudier  flowers  of  summer, 

Still  they  clung  upon  the  bough, 
While  Spring's  fair  and  fragile  daughters 

Slept  in  early  graves  below. — 
So  we  human  mourners  linger 
O'er  the  tombs  of  those  we  mourn  ; 
With  a  smile  of  mocking  likeness — 
Likeness  in  a  strange  unlikeness — 
To  the  smiles  our  young  lips  wore 
Answering  lips  that  smile  no  more. 

Dost  remember 

In  the  sober 
Autumn  splendor  of  October, 

How  the  tempest-maddened  gale, 
Rent  the  many-colored  garments 

From  the  hilltop  and  the  vale  ? 
Then  the  gorgeous  flowers  of  summer, 
Like  the  gentle  flowers  of  spring, 
Perished  and  in  thousands  fell, 
In  the  garden  and  the  dell. 

Dost  remember 
In  this  dark  and  drear  December? 


54  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  S7OR\ 

Lo,  the  crisp  leaves,  scant  and  sear, 
Shiver  in  the  tempest's  rage, 

As  old  men  whose  end  is  near 
Tremble  with  the  woes  of  age. 

Still  the  grandly  changeless  pines 

In  the  solemn  loneness  rise, 
Over  Nature's  ruined  shrines 

Pointing  spire-like  to  the  skies. 
Waiting  in  calm  faith  they  stand 

Till  the  Builder  shall  repair 
Every  temple  of  His  hand  : 

All  the  broken  arches  there. 

Like  the  fragile  flowers  of  spring 
Youthful  pleasure  fades  and  dies. 

Time  and  change  their  blighting  bring 
To  ambition's  gaudier  prize. 

Mid  a  lifetime's  scattered  ruins, 

Virtue  standeth  like  the  pine. 
In  a  patient  faith  abiding ; 

Waiting  with  a  hope  divine; 
Knowing  that  the  Perfect  Giver, 

For  each  lost  imperfect  joy, 
Will  restore  a  purer  pleasure, 

Heavenly  and  without  alloy  ; 
For  each  glory  that  ambition 

In  his  proudest  hour  has  known. 
He  a  loftier  aspiration 

With  a  nobler  wreath  shall  crown. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  55 


NAY,  NEVER  LIGHTLY  TELL  THE  TALE. 

Nay,  never  lightly  tell  the  tale 

When  crime  his  doom  shall  bear, 
For  hearts  that  spurned  the  guilty  joy, 

The  agony  must  share. 
There's  not  a  pang  which  justice 

On  sin  most  rightly  deals, 
But  all  its  poisoned  keenness, 

Some  guileless  bosom  feels. 

And  scorn  not  thou  the  new-born  tear 

From  sin-dried  fount  that  flows; 
A  dream  of  fond  hearts  wronged  and  crushed 

May  well  that  fount  unclose  ; 
For  men  who  brave  undaunted, 

The  sword  that  justice  wears, 
Shall  faint  and  shrink  and  tremble 

For  fates  enlinked  with  theirs. 

So  thick  the  twined  affections 

Around  all  bosoms  cling, 
The  blow  one  chord  that  striketh, 

A  thousand  hearts  may  wring. 
Then  think  when  paths  invite  thee, 

With  guilty  gladness  strown, 
The  end  is  dark  with  sorrow, 

Thou  shalt  not  meet  alone. 


56  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STOR\. 


NOW  CROWN  THE  CONQUEROR  TIME  ! 

A    Is'EW  YEAR'S    LYRIC. 

Now  crown  the  Monarch  Time  ! 
Who  cometh  from  the  myriad  fields  of  fame, 

In  conquering  might  sublime  ; 
All  fadeless  glories  clustering  round  his  name  ; 
The  spoils  from  Earth's  historic  empires  torn, 
Before  his  iron  car,  triumphal  trophies,  borne  ! 

Hero  and  statesman  built 
Empurpled  annals  up  to  glory's  height  ; 

Theirs  still  the  blood  and  guilt ; 
All  else  adorns  the  triumph  of  his  might, 
Who  comes  from  havoc  wider  than  they  made, 
A  conqueror  in  their  spoiled  royalties  arrayed. 

He  wears  the  Caesar's  wreath 

— Though   scant    to  veil   the  breadth    of   his   bald 
brow — 

And.  not  to  thoughts  that  breathe, 
But  to  his  hollow  tones  Rome's  forum  echoes  now. 
Yea,  templed  Greece, — once  egotist  divine — 
No  other  wreath  than  his    hangs    on   each   ruined 
shrine  ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  57 

Xor  did  the  Pharaoh  raise 
Pyramidal  or  mystic  sculptured  mass 

To  his  own  paltry  praise  : 

But  all  to  him  whose  sceptre  was  the  hour  glass ; 
Who  kept  even  then  his  royal  state  alone 
In  chambers  where  the  Assyrian  built  his  throne. 

Time  reigneth  well  o'er  all  ! 
Go  read  his  annals  on  each  crumbling  tower 

That  tells  a  tyrant's  fall ; 
Nor  less  in  ancient  Albion's  storied  power, 
And  young  Columbia's  blazonry  of  strength. 
Time  bids  the  good  prevail,  and  brings  the  best  at 
length. 

He  reigneth  well  o'er  Earth, 
And  lightens  in  her  fields  the  peasant's  toil. 

Her  rocks  of  sterile  dearth 
He  mellows  to  the  soft  and  grateful  soil. 
Yes,  Earth  is  greener  for  his  genial  reign, — 
More  luscious  her  pulped  fruits  ;  more  golden  her 
ripe  grain  ! 

Then  crown  the  Monarch  Time, 
Whose  reign  is  over  fields  and  towers  and  thrones, 

From  Earth's  star-welcomed  prime  ! 
Ye  towns  unwalled  with  Time-defying  stones, 
Ye  empires  strong,  while  loyal  to  your  king, 
Your  homage   and  your  shouts  to  his  new  crowning 
bring  ! 


5S  SOUVENIR  VERSE  A. YD  STORY. 

And  come  ye  serried  hills. 
That  yearly  lay  your  leafy  tiaras  down, 

And  not  until  he  wills, 
Assume  again  the  tributary  crown  ! 
And    you,    ye    mountains,    come,    or    helmed    with 

snows, 

Or  nodding  your  plumed  fires  above  your  wrinkled 
brows  ! 

Thou,  Ocean,  homage  pay ! 

Time's  coral  isles  invade  thine  ancient  realm  ; 

He  claimeth  from  thy  prey 
A  tithe  of  all  which  thou  dost  overwhelm  ; 
Thy  kingdom  ends  when  he  shall  be  no  more  ; 
God's  angel  plants  his  foot  on  thee,  as  on  the  shore  ! 

Ye  radiant  hosts  of  night, 
Sing — as  ye  sang  to  hail  his  mighty  birth — 

His  arm's  victorious  might, 
His  power  imperial,  and  his  royal  worth  ! 
Join  our  bright  pageant  with  your  gorgeous  train, 
And    swell    our    anthem    peal    with    your    exultant 
strain  ! 

And  thou,  oh  Monarch  Sun, 
Who  metest  out  our  monarch's  cii cling  days 

Smile  thou  on  what  is  done  ! 
Pour,  over  all,  thy  bright  and  genial  rays, 
As  many  an  hour  thou  dost,  till  mortals  deem 
Heaven's  blessing  falls  in  every  golden  beam. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  59 

We  crown  the  Monarch  Time  ! 
Peal  festal  chimes  from  old  cathedral  towers, 

And  spires  he  makes  sublime 
With  mosses  gray — his  heralds  of  the  hours  ; 
But  gladder  changes  ring  on  village  bells, 
That  wake  the  new-born  echoes  of  our  forest  dells  ! 


To  deck  our  peerless  king, 
No  outworn  diadem  of  Tyranny, 

No  triple  tiara  bring  ! 
Nor  iron  crown  revered,  of  Lombardy  : 
No  purples  moldy  with  the  world's  old  dew, 
For  him  whose  conquest  is  the  past,  whose  realm  the 
new. 

But  thou,  my  country,  bind 
The  clustering  stars  of  thy  fresh  springing  states, 

In  one  fair  circlet  twined, 

Around  his  brow  who  thy  new  crowning  waits  ; 
And  pray  that,  in  that  band  of  living  light, 
The   glow   grow  ever  purer    and    the   gleam   more 
bright. 

Aye,  bring,  for  royal  robe, 
Nought  but  our  flag's  celestial  panoply, — 

For  all  sceptred  globe 
Our  Eagle  !  Lo,  uplifted  to  the  sky, 
Our  free  old  mountains  wait  him  for  sole  throne, 
That  never  king  before  hath  ruled  or  sat  upon  ! 


60  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

We  crown  thee,  royal  Time  ! 
Oh,  reign  not  as  the  conqueror  reigns, 

Smile  on  thy  willing  clime  ; 

Change  thou  the  wrong  which  from  of  old  remains ; 
Not    as   the  rifted    rock  to   thy  strong  earthquake 

yields, 
But  as  thy  genial  springs  make  smooth   the   rude 

new  fields  ! 
January  i,  1857. 


DEDICATORY  PROLOGUE. 

PITTSFIELD  ACADEMY  OF  Music,  DECEMBER 
16,  1872. 

Recited  by  the  Leading  Actress. 

The  spell  is  cast.     Behind  its  painted  wall 

The  magic  pageant  waits  the  master's  call ! 

Yet  for  a  while,  in  his  impatient  hand, 

Unlifted  rests  the  wizard's  potent  wand. 

Something  he  lacks.      His  sorcery's  charms  at  fault, 

All  incomplete  his  incantations  halt. 

We  need  invoke  in  the  old  rhythmic  way 

To  this  fair  realm  that  craves  their  genial  sway, 

The  mighty  muses  that  in  every  age 

Have  shed  their  influence  on  the  mimic  stage. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AAL>  STORY.  61 

Thou  proud,  dark  mistress  of  the  tragic  art, 

At  whose  strong  bidding  ail  our  tears  upstart ; 

In  whose  stern  scenes,  from  others'  woes  we  win 

The  knowledge  that  by  suffering  entereth  in  ; 

In  thy  grand  crowning,  sorrow,  throned  sublime, 

Rebukes  more  royally  even  royal  crime. 

Thine  are  the  pangs  which  godlike  natures  know — 

Triumphant  agony  ;  the  majesty  of  woe  ; 

Thine  the  fierce  furies  whose  relentless  feet 

Pursue  the  murderer's  step  with  vengeance  meet. 

Queen  of  Life's  loftiest  thought,  Death's  tenderest 

ruth, 

Thou  dark  veiled  teacher  of  ennobling  truth, 
Come  from  the  boards  where  thou  each  changing 

scene 

Wast  wont  to  tread  with  Garrick,  Kemble,  Kean  ; 
Where    grew   the  fame  our  fresh-mourned   Forrest 

gained, 

Where  Linley  charmed,  and  royal  Siddons  reigned  ; 
Where  she,  the  Kemble  of  our  Berkshire  Hills, 
Almost  even  now,  enchants,  and  awes,  and  thrills. 
From  each  old  memory-haunted   green-room   bring 

with  thee 
For  us,  a  dream  of  memories  yet  to  be  ! 

Thou  too,  quaint  wearer  of  the  comic  mask, 
Whose  "  fierce  endeavor  "  and  appointed  task, 
It  is,  to  exorcise  our  follies  with  a  laugh. 
No  bitter  draught  thou  bidst  thy  patients  quaff, 
But  curest  all  our  humors,  half  our  ills, 
With  Dr.  Momus'  sugar-coated  pills. 


62  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

'Gainst  vice  and  folly,  wit's  a  sovereign  balm, 

That  works,  to  quote  friend  Renne,  "like  a  charm.'' 

Royal  physician,  conqueror  of  all  pain, 

Oh,  "  Stoop  to  conquer,"  in  this  new  domain. 

And  thou,  bright  ruler  of  the  choral  dance, 
Whose  waving  arms  and  flashed  imperial  glance 
The  soft-eyed  houris  of  the  fair  ballet 
In  twining  wreaths  and  circling  grace  obey, 
Muse  of  the  mazy  step  and  dazzling  zone, 
Each  bosom  yields  to  thee  a  willing  throne  ; 
Foes  thou  may'st  have  in  temples  more  austere, 
But  surely  none  but  loyal  lovers  here. 

Muse  of  the  quivering  lyre  and  minstrel's  song, 
Slaves  to  whose  power  the  captive  passions  throng, 
Oh,  show  us  here  the  drama's  rapturous  rage, 
The  gorgeous  glories  of  the  lyric  stage  ! 
With  Handel  bid  us  grandly  to  adore, 
With  Nillson  thrill,  with  glorious  Lucca  soar! 
Nor  be  forgot  the  mirthful  sons  of  glee, 
But  let  us  laugh  with  laughing  Barnabee  ! 

Our  charm  is  said,  our  invocation  made  ! 
Shall  we  receive,  my  friends,  your  voice's  aid  ? 
Perhaps   you    think    these    mystic    rites  a  "hum.'' 

Well ; 

On  that  point,  then,  I've  something  more  to  tell  : 
Our  modern  sages — very  wise  are  they, 
In  the  new  wisdom  of  this  latter  day — 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  63 

Deem  that  in  every  dead  and  dry  old  myth 

There  is  a  very  juicy,  living  pith  ; 

That  every  hollow  heathen  god  is  packed 

With  a  most  solid  mass  of  Christian  fact ; 

In  short,  that  what  the  silly  herd  call  silly  lies, 

Are  great  symbolic  truths  in  Wisdom's  eyes. 

Now,  if  this  learned  philosophy  be  true, 
We'll  find  our  muses,  smiling  friends,  in  you  : 
And,  as  you  bid  us  paint  the  tragic  tale, 
Or,  with  Wit's  arrows,  Folly's  brood  impale, 
Or  tread  in  Fairy  dance  the  chalk-marked  floor, 
In  you  by  turns  each  mythic  patron  we  adore. 
Yet,  mythic  or  human,  with  no  flatterer's  guile 
Can  the  stage  court  its  patrons'  favoring  smile  ; 
Our  task,  to  hold — I  think  the  phrase  is  new — 
The  mirror  up  to  nature,  and  to  you  : 
And,  well  I  ween,  not  every  feature  there 
Is  pictured  grandly  good,  or  purely  fair. 
No  dame — nor  e'en  the  sweetest,  winsome  lass 
Can  "  handsome  "   always  in  her  looking  glass. 

The  self-same  passions,  virtues,  vices,  lurk 
In  Christian,  Pagan,  Jew  and  turbaned  Turk. 
The  foreign  garb  is  but  polite  disguise, 
And  won't  deceive  your  penetrating  eyes. 
In  heroes,  lovers,  even  in  fays  and  elves, 
We  paint,  in  very  truth,  your  very  selves. 
Each  week  your  Schools  for  Scandal  duly  meet. 
Where  tongues  and  needles  in  their  speed  compete. 


64  SOUVENIR   VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Nay,  smile  not  brothers  :  how  about  your  club  ? 
Do  reputations  there  ne'er  get  a  rub  ? 
Ah,  gentle  brothers,  very  much  I  fear 
That  woman's  foibles  oft  wear  manly  gear  ! 

Enough  !  to  you  who  love  the  genial  art, 
That  here  uplifts  the  soul  and  melts  the  heart, 
That  scathes  our  follies  and  rebukes  our  faults, 
Teaches,  refines,  ennobles  and  exalts  ; 
To  you  we  dedicate,  whate'er  the  rites, 
This  fairest  temple  of  all  fair  delights. 
In  long  procession,  'neath  its  gilded  dome, 
Through  the  bright  portals  of  its  stage,  shall  come 
To  you,  the  changeful  drama's  glittering  train, 
The  Houris'  dance,  the  Songstress'  thrilling  strain. 
Yours  are  its  splendors,  yours  its  joys  shall  be  : 
Yours,  too,  to  make,  or  mar,  its  destiny  ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  65 


THE  DESERTED  BALL  ROOM. 

How  hollow  through  the  silence 

Of  this  vacant  festal  hall, 
Ring  the  echoes,  oft-repeated, 

Of  our  footsteps'  lightest  fall ! 
Hollow,  lone,  sad,  repeated, 

Sound  they  on  this  dance-worn  floor ; 
Like  the  memories  of  that  night,  love, 

When  we  met  here  before. 

Flashed  joyous,  in  the  flashing 

Of  a  hundred  tapers'  blaze, 
Glad  eyes,  ah,  well  remembered  ! 

That  have  paled  their  joy-lit  rays; 
And  thrilling  strains  re-echoed — 

Memory-echoed  evermore — 
Through  this  rose-wreathed  hall,  love, 

When  we  met  here  before. 

Stilled,  like  ceased  music,  the  glad  voices, 

In  life's  stifling  or  the  tomb  ; 
And  ghostly  echoes,  only, 

Haunt  this  empty  festal  room. 
Hollow,  thus,  lone,  sad,  repeated, 

Sound  our  footsteps  on  this  floor ; 
Bringing  memories  of  that  night,  love, 

When  we  met  here  before  ! 


66  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


LIFE'S   MORNING   STARS. 

We  mourn  the  eyes  that  answered  ours 

In  pleasant  days  long  gone  ; 
Mild  orbs  that  shone  Life's  morning  stars, 

And  faded  with  its  dawn. 
From  other  eyes,  joy,  genius,  wit 

May  flash  their  kindling  powers ; 
But  still  we  yearn  for  those  which  fell 

More  lovingly  on  ours  ! 

And  still  in  dreams  we  meet  their  gaze 

When  gloom  the  soul  enshrouds; 
The  radiant  stars  of  hope  that  break 

Through  sorrow's  rifted  clouds. 
Whoe'er  may  frown  whose  smiles  should  cheer 

When  angry  fortune  glowers, 
We  know  what  pitying  eyes  would  fall 

More  lovingly  on  ours. 

When  light  from  all  Life's  broad  serene, 

To  us  and  ours  is  given, 
When  Earth  and  Earth-born  things  reflect 

The  golden  smile  of  Heaven  ; 
From  light  that  blackens  into  gloom 

Let  but  a  cloudlet  lower, 
We  turn  to  that  whose  brightest  rays 

Illumed  our  darkest  hour. 


SOUVEXIR  VERSE  AA'D  STORY.  67 

In  Fancy's  ken,  still,  still,  those  eyes 

Our  cynosure  shall  gleam  ; 
Dear  orbs  that  shone  Life's  morning  stars 

Its  stars  of  eve  shall  beam.— 
And,  aye,  if  Heaven  at  length  we  reach, 

Even  in  Heaven's  love-blest  bowers, 
We  know  what  waiting  eyes  will  fall 

Most  lovingly  on  ours. 


68  SOU\7E\IR  I'ERSE  AND  STORY. 


MUSIC  AT  THE  TWILIGHT  HOUR. 

Take  the  harp  thine  art  devotes 

To  soothing  strains  as  night  descends, 

And,  while  zephyr  round  us  floats, 
O  sing  the  vesper  song  that  blends 

So  sweetly  with  its  notes, 

Till  our  bosoms  own  the  power 
Of  music  at  the  twilight  hour. 

Take  thy  harp,  fair  queen  of  song, 
And  let  thy  soul-sped  fingers  sweep 

Its  tremulous  chords  along, 

'Twill  bid  faint  hearts  with  hope  to  leap, 

Again  with  faith  grow  strong, 

While  with  tears  they  bless  the  power 
Music  wields  at  twilight's  hour. 

Take  thy  harp  while  daylight  dies, 

And  sing  the  song  whose  magic  strain 
Bids  all  fond  memories  rise, 

And  to  our  hearts  bring  back  again 
Dear  tones  from  Paradise. 

Wield,  oh  wield  the  hallowed  power 

Of  music  at  the  twilight  hour. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  69 


THE  VERMEIL  LIP  IS  VICTRESS  STILL. 

Ho  !  preachers  of  a  dullard's  cant, 
You  press  your  prosy  creed  in  vain  ; 

The  plainly  good  doth  not  prevail, 
And  Beauty's  empire  doth  not  wane  : 

Of  homely  graces  prate  who  will, 

The  vermeil  lip  is  victress  still  ! 

We  chant  our  song  to  woman's  power 
Still  in  the  old  poetic  phrase — 

The  azure  eye,  the  golden  tress 
Are  strong  as  in  the  ancient  days ; 

Not  one  of  all  the  hues  grows  faint 

That  classic  genius  glowed  to  paint. 

With  Milton's  gorgeous  iris  tints 

You  deck  your  own  young  bosom  queen, 

And  Shakespeare  drew  the  counterpart 
Of  her  you  lingered  by  yestreen  ; 

You  deem,  in  fair  Miranda's  shrine 

The  indwelling  soul  must  be  divine. 

Still  Beauty  triumphs  in  the  thronged 
And  fierce  encounters  of  the  dance  ; 

And  still  the  heedless  straggler  falls 
Before  some  ambushed  wayside  glance  : 

Victress,  where'er  she  flash  her  darts, 

Still  Beauty's  Queen  is  Queen  of  Hearts  ! 


70  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


OUR  HUNTING  MORN-AT  EVE. 

Up  !  our  hunting  morn  is  peeping 

As  the  evening  twilight  dies  ; 
Let  the  dews  suffice  for  weeping 

And  the  night  wind  for  all  sighs ! 

Hark !   the  hunt  is  onward  flying, 
And  the  game  is  Love  and  Joy; 

With  Time,  the  hoary  hunter,  vieing 
Let  us  join  the  chase,  my  boy ! 

Coyest  Love  may  be  abiding — 
Where  to  say  we  hardly  dare — 

But  we'll  trace  him  to  his  hiding, 
Even  in  his  snowiest  lair ! 

Oh  !  be  sure,  if  there  we've  found  him, 
Though  our  trembling  prize  be  coy, 

If  we've  caught  young  Love,  and  bound  him, 
Then  we  can't  be  far  from  Joy ! 


SOLTE+Y/A  I'ERSE  AND  STORY.  71 


THE  BREAKING  OF  LOVE'S  DREAM. 

A  VERY   MOURNFUL  BALLAD. 

The  night  was  glorious — such  an  one 

As,  clothed  in  virgin  white, 
When  the  long  prosy  day  is  clone, 

Sets  all  the  loves  aflight. 

The  moon  in  Heaven's  sapphire  hung 
Amid  her  bright-eyed  daughters, 

And  low  her  trembling  image  flung 
Upon  the  rippling  waters. 

And — apropos — for  one  so  chaste — 

The  very  queen  of  prudes — 
Diana  has  a  queerish  taste 

For  kissing  waves  and  woods. 

Well,  well  !  I  hear  a  man  is  seen 

Quite  often  in  her  car ; 
Venus  and  she  were  quite  too  thick 

When  V.  was  evening  star. 

And  then  she  sheds  such  trait'rous  light 

To  cheat  one's  prudent  fear; 
While  all  around  seems  dazzling  bright, 

Such  shadows  overnear ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

'Twas  so  that  night — that  glorious  one, 

The  very  cream  of  June, 
When  lovers  thought  their  walk  was  done 

At  least  an  hour  too  soon. 

Paul  stood  within  a  shadow  dim 

Before  a  mansion  gate, 
With  one  whose  love  was  more  to  him 

Than  all  her  Pa's  estate. 

He  said  so — while,  with  passion  fraught, 
Love  fired  his  trembling  tongue, 

And  she  Love's  inspiration  caught 
And  on  his  accents  hung. 

But  suddenly  a  voice  rose  there — 

A  voice  of  woman  old, 
Loud  shrieking  on  the  startled  air, 

"  Darter  !  come  in  this  ininnit,  (hilii — you'' II 
ketch  your  dcaili  a-cold  !  " 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  73 


A  VALENTINE. 

FROM    TWO    COLLIERS    OF    NEW    ASHFORD    'I  O 
TWO   DAMSELS   OF   LANESBORO'. 

Two  brother  collier  chaps  be  we, 

Eke  of  New  Ashford  town, 
Who  oft  two  lovely  damsels  see, 

When  we  with  coal  come  down. 

And  like  our  coal  pits  are  our  hearts, 

With  love  for  you  on  fire, 
When,  sitting  on  our  long  black  carts, 

Your  beauty  we  admire. 

And  if  our  soot  your  taste  don't  suit, 

And  you  our  suit  despise, 
Then  like  dead  coals  shall  be  our  souls, 

As  like  live  coals  your  eyes. 

About  our  hue  you  needn't  raise 

A  mighty  hue  and  cry  ; 
Jt — like  the  hues  some  lovers  praise, — 

Not  quite  skin  deep  doth  lie. 

And,  ere  we'll  die  for  that  dark  dye, 

And  perish  of  your  scorn, 
Soaked  in  weak  lye  a  week  we'll  lie, 

Till  white  as  we  were  born. 


74  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Nay, — though  our  skins  were  really  black, 

We  never  did  get  blue, 
As  ah !  alas  !  and  ah,  good  lack  ! 

Too  many  people  do. 

And  thus,  in  this  most  tender  lay, 

We  lay  our  bosoms  bare, 
All  in  a  way  we  hope  will  weigh, 

Against  the  hues  we  wear. 

Oh  !  if  you  take  the  tender  hearts, 

That  we  now  tender  you, 
Away  shall  fly  our  heavy  smarts, 

As  smoke  flies  up  the  flue. 

Gladly  for  you  we'd  change  our  hue, 

But  if  you  say  us  nay, 
We  can  but  do,  as  doth  the  dew, 

And  weep  ourselves  away. 

Then,  though  for  you  in  vain  we've  sued, 
Still  o'er  our  graves  a  weeping  yew 

Shall  say  that  us,  though  never  slewed, 
Two  cruel  maidens  slew. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  75 

WINTER    ELFINRY. 

THE  MARVELS  OF  A  SLEIGHRIDE. 

Many  and  sweet  are  the  songs  that  tell 

Of  those  delicate  sprites  of  wave  and  dell, 

The  elves  who  their  moonlight  revels  hold 

By  streams  that  flow  over  sands  of  gold, 

Or  spite  of  the  Puritan,  merrily  dance 

Mid  the  groves  of  England  and  vines  of  France  ; 

And  the  balmy  breeze  of  Spain  perfume 

With  the  orange  blossom  and  rose's  bloom. 

But  the  gossamer  wings  of  these  fairy  bands 

Wander  not  now  to  our  Northern  lands, 

Though  'tis  said,  that  once  in  these  wild  climes 

When  the  feathery  palms  and  leafy  limes, 

That  now  far  down  in  the  coalfields  lie, 

(Deep  hid  from  all  but  the  miner's  eye, 

And  stiff  as  their  sculptured  forms  would  be 

Carved  in  the  blackest  of  ebony,) 

Their  full  fresh  foliage  freely  waved 

O'er  a  silver  lake  their  roots  that  laved  ; 

They  say,  in  that  olden  summer  hour, 

The  North  had  ne'er  felt  the  Frost  King's  power, 

And  sprites  of  these  ancient  groves  made  haunts 

Who  fled  Old  Winter  like  any  he  daunts 

Till  Southward  in  terror  they  swiftly  fly 

When  his  lightest  of  all  light  frosts  seems  nigh. 


76  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

But  it  is  not  of  elves  who  shun  our  air, 
To  sport  where  the  sunny  South  is  fair, 
That  these,  my  truthful  rhymes,  shall  tell, 
But  of  sprites  who  love  our  Northlands  well. 

THAT    MARVELOUS    SLEIGHRIDE. 

'Twas  a  crystal  eve  in  the  Winter  time  : 

The  air  as  clear  as  the  mellow  chime 

Of  old  church  bells,  at  Christmas  ringing 

In  hoary  towers  with  ivy  clinging,  — 

A  simile,  this,  of  my  good  old  grandmother's  ; 

Not  quite  canonical,  but  good  as  some  others, — 

And  better  in  this,  that  you  know  very  well 

What  it  means  when  you're  told,  "  'tis  as  clear  as 

a  bell." 

But  similes  all,  are  all  too  faint 
That  crystal  purity  to  paint. 
But  for  their  likeness  outlined  dim 
By  mountains  on  the  horizon's  rim, 
Of  clouds  the  happy  fickle  sky 
Had  lost  the  very  memory, 
Earth's  rimy  robe  of  splendor  lay 
Sparkling  with  gems  in  the  full  moon's  ray  ; 
While  the  oak's  bare  limbs,  as  they  came  between 
The  dazzling  light  of  her  silver  sheen 
And  the  white  expanse  of  the  outspread  snow. 
Cast  network  shadows  of  blue  below. 
The  still,  the  clear,  the  frosty  night 
Was  radiant  all,  and  festal  bright  ; 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  77 

Save  where,  within  some  narrowing  dale, 
The  light  grew  strange,  and  weird  and  pale. 
There  were  merry  shouts;  whispers  low; 
Tramp  of  steeds  on  crinkling  snow  ; 
Tinkling  of  bells  ;  snatches  of  song  ; 
All  sounds  that  to  wintry  revel  belong. 
And  they  troubled,  but  could  not  break  the  spell 
Of  weird  loneness  within  the  dell. 

When  moonlight  chastens  beauty's  smile 
The  witching  hour  is  all  the  while  ; 
And  thus  it  chanced  in  a  simple  way 
That  fairies  hovered  about  our  sleigh, 
As  fluttering  butterflies  hover,  and  ply 
Their  gambols,  about  your  path  in  July  ; 
Fearless  but  featherly  light  of  form 
As  flakes  that  linger  after  a  storm 
For  a  few  more  airy  dances  ; 
Fantastic  imps  whose  goblin  glee 
And  gay  carousal  were  fittest  to  be 
In  a  maiden's  moonlit  glances. 

And  now  their  circling  sports  they  led 
Where  that  fair  light  was  fairest  shed. 
Some  clasped  to  a  glossy  ringlet  clung, 
And  frolicked,  frisked  and  featly  swung; 
Some  rather  chose  soft  couch  to  seek 
In  the  dimpled  rose  of  a  hooded  cheek  ; 
Or,  more  luxurious,  slumbered  well 
Where  muffled  bosoms  rose  and  fell ; 


7 8  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

And  it  wouldn't  be  strange  if,  just  out  of  sight — 

To  be  out  of  the  chilly  weather — 

Under  the  furs,  some  mischievous  sprite 

Were  guiding  two  hands  to  the  self-same  spot. 

If  it  wasn't  a  sprite,  'twas  :    Do  you  know  what, 

When  they  didn't  dream  of  coming  together  ? 

And  these  were  those  genii  quaint  of  the  frost 

Who  when  bright  summerly  tints  are  lost, 

Adorn  anew  the  desolate  scene 

With  gems  and  silver  for  gold  and  green  ; 

Making  the  Winter  fit  for  all  mirth, 

In  its  bracing  air ;  by  its  ruddy  hearth  ; 

With  its  glare  blue  ice  for  the  skater's  steel ; 

With  its  crispy  snow  for  the  cutter's  keel ; 

With  beauty  and  light,  and  heart  withal, 

For  ride  or  rout  or  festival ; 

Fit  for  Christmas  and  New  Year's  to  come  in  ; 

Fit  to  be  cozy  and  nice  at  home  in  ; 

Fit  for  the  country  tavern  ball ; 

For  the  parson's  jolly  donation  call, 

For  the  social  sing  ;  and  exceedingly  pat 

For  an  hour  of  sparking  after  that ; 

Fit  for  quilting  frolics  and  apple  bees  ; 

Fit  for  whatever  revels  you  please  : 

And  not  a  mere  frightfulness,  stark  and  blue, 

A  mere  hole  in  the  year  for  the  wind  toublow  through. 

And  the  fairies  who  made  this  world  so  fair 
Were  not  ashamed  in  its  mirth  to  share, 
Like  a  wit  his  laugh  who  smothers. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  79 

But  when  their  work  was  deftly  done, 

They  found  they  had  made  a  world  of  fun 

For  themselves  as  well  as  others. 

Yet  they  sang  a  song  whose  varying  strain, 

Though  it  rollicked  in  joy  had  a  sad  refrain: 

A  sentimental  trick,  no  doubt, 

As  Fanny  sings,  at  the  Potiphars'  rout, 

A  lay  that  mentions  her  heart  as  "broke," 

Whereas  that  organ  is  much  like  an  oak, 

That  is  tough  long  after  it's  hollow. 

However,  not  to  digress  too  long, 

You'll  find  some  bits  of  the  fairy  song 

In  some  dozen  lines  that  follow. 


SONG  OF  THE  WINTER  FAIRIES. 

The  merriest  of  brave  sprites  be  we 

Who  wildly  live  and  daintily  : 

For  now  our  tiny  selves  we  shroud 

In  drapery  of  a  tempest  cloud  ; 

Now  ride  on  the  beams  of  a  maiden's  eye  ; 

Now  on  a  car  of  snowflakes  fly ; 

And  dance  anon  on  the  witching  curls 

That  float  round  the  necks  of  the  Yankee  girls. 

Yet  when  November's  breezes  blow, 

When  falls  the  first  bright  broad-flaked  snow, 

Sadly  somewhile  we  drop  the  tear 

For  elder  daughters  of  the  year. 


8o  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

While  dirge-like  beat  the  chilling  waves, 
We,  Winter  Fairies  weeping  bring 
Spotless  wreaths  to  deck  the  graves 
Of  Flowers  that  perished  with  the  Spring. 

When  the  marshaled  storm  is  seen  by  men 
To  come  through  the  pass  of  the  Indian  glen, 

NOTE  — In  the  mountainous  regions  of  New  England,  the  strip  of 
lurid  sky  seen  above  the  horizon  between  the  hills  on  the  approach  of 
a  storm  is  called  "  The  Indian  Glen." 

And  swift,  from  its  mountain  fastness  steep, 
Rank  upon  rank  its  white  plumes  sweep, 
As  they  rush  on  the  shuddering  fields  below, 
With  bladed  winds  and  shotted  snow, 
In  the  van  of  the  angry  host  ride  we, 
And  join  in  its  mad  and  martial  glee. 

But  when  upon  his  fading  path, 
The  cruel  storm  comes  down  in  wrath, 
And,  far  from  human  voice  and  eye, 
The  traveler  sinks,  alone  to  die, 
Our  hands  his  snowy  pillow  smooth 
Our  songs  his  dying  moments  soothe  ; 
And  through  the  stormy  skies  we  bear 
The  accents  of  his  last  faint  prayer. 

The  music  ceased.    Far  up  the  vale 
The  saddened  night  wind  seemed  to  wail. 
But  into  the  broad  and  peopled  plain 
The  joyous  revel  burst  again. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  81 

Again  all  sounds  of  young  delight 

Broke  on  the  silence  of  the  night ; 

Anew  the  merry  song  and  shout 

Told  Echo  of  the  madcap  rout ; 

Anew  the  laugh  began  to  ring. 

But  the  frolic  fairies  all  took  wing ; 

For,  all  they  could  do  being  done 

In  the  way  of  making  love  or  fun, 

The  charms  for  our  jollity  needless  more, 

To  the  realm  of  Otherwhere  they  bore. 

Seeking  new  fields  for  triumphs  new 

In  triumph  they  bade  our  sleigh  adieu. 

Then  the  witchery  that  lingered  there. 
Was  all  in  your  eye,  my  blue-orbed  fair  ! 


LYRICAL  PIECES. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  85 

THE  GRAY  OLD  ELM  OF  PITTSFIELD 
PARK. 

[Sung  at  the  Humphrey  Association  Festival  May  i,  1856.] 

Tell  us  a  tale  thou  gray  old  tree, 

A  tale  of  thy  leafy  prime  ; 
For  thine  was  a  home  in  the  forest  free 

Ere  our  bold  forefathers'  time. 
Thou  sawest  the  wildwood  all  alight 

With  the  bale-fire's  direful  glare, 
Where  now  the  murkiest  gloom  of  night 

Our  household  fires  make  fair. 
Then  tell  us  a  tale,  thou  gray  old  tree, 

A  tale  of  thy  leafy  prime, 
Of  the  wild-eyed  red  man  roaming  free, 

Or  our  fathers'  deeds  sublime  ! 

Say,  when  the  gorgeous  laurel  flowers 

And  sweetbriars'  bloom  were  gay, 
Did  here,  in  the  forest's  fragrant  hours, 

Some  dusky  lovers  stray  ? 
Sadly,  we  know,  the  captive's  sigh 

With  thy  murmuring  was  blent. 
Oh  tell  of  the  love  and  courage  high, 

That  the  captive's  bondage  rent ! 
Aye,  tell  us  a  tale,  thou  gray  old  tree, 

A  tale  of  thy  leafy  prime  ; 
Of  the  wild-eyed  red  man  roaming  free, 

Or  our  fathers'  deeds  sublime. 


86  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AATD  STORY. 

Tell  us  the  tale  how  the  forest  fell 

And  the  graceful  spire  arose  ; 
And,  charmed  by  the  holy,  pealing  bell, 

How  the  valley  found  repose. 
Our  heritage  here,  with  toil  and  prayer, 

Was  won  by  the  good  and  brave, 
While  over  them,  like  a  banner  in  air, 

They  saw  thy  branches  wave. 

Then  tell  us  a  tale,  thou  gray  old  tree, 

A  tale  of  thy  leafy  prime  ; 
Of  the  wild-eyed  red  man  roaming  free, 

Or  our  fathers'  deeds  sublime  ! 

Ah,  dearly  we  love  thy  wasting  form, 

Thou  pride  of  our  stern  old  sires, 
Though  torn  by  the  rage  of  the  darting  storm, 

And  the  lightning's  scathing  fires  : 
And  dearly  the  sons  of  the  mountain  vale, 

Wherever  their  exile  be, 
Will  thrill  as  they  list  to  the  song  or  tale, 

Jf  it  speak  of  their  home  and  thee. 
Then  tell  us  a  tale  thou  gray  old  tree, 

A  tale  of  thy  leafy  prime  ; 
Of  the  wild-eyed  red  man  roaming  free. 

Or  our  fathers'  deeds  sublime  ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  87 

THb"    OLD    ELM    OF    PITTSFIELD    PARK. 

When  the  first  highway  surveyor  of  the  Plantation 
of  Poontoosuc,  which  afterwards  became  the  town 
of  Pittsfield,  was  clearing  its  earliest  roads  of  forest 
trees,  he  came  upon  an  elm  which  was  so  beautiful 
that  he  ordered  his  axmen  to  spare  it,  after  one  of 
them  had  already  inflicted  two  blows  upon  it. 
Think  what  the  beauty  of  a  tree  must  be  to  soften 
the  heart  of  a  highway  surveyor  !  although  this  par 
ticular  official,  Captain  Charles  Goodrich,  had  an 
•exceptionally  large  and  good  one.  The  elm  was  then 
tall,  leafy  in  its  boughs,  but  with  its  perfectly  straight 
trunk  entirely  free  from  them  to  the  height  of 
fifty  feet.  The  tree  thus  saved  became  the  central 
figure  in  Pittsfield's  village  green  ;  afterwards  the 
town's  central  park.  In  its  shade  occurred  many 
of  the  most  memorable  events  in  the  town's  history. 
There  stood  the  little  brown  meeting  house  in  which 
Parson  Allen  preached  the  gospel  of  liberty,  and  the 
people  took  the  boldest  Revolutionary  action.  From 
under  it  the  Pittsfield  soldiery  marched  away  to  do 
or  die  in  all  the  nation's  wars.  There  Lafayette 
was  received  on  his  visit  in  1825  ;  and  there  were 
many  similar  demonstrations.  There  were  held  the 
first  cattle  shows  in  America  of  the  class  now  uni 
versal  Tnere  occurred  many  similar  events  of 
which  it  was  a  souvenir  in  the  minds  of  all  the 
inhabitants  of  the  town,  when  they  were  almost  all 
native  born. 


88  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

In  1841,  it  was  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight  feet 
high  and  twenty-four  in  circumference.  Its  per 
fectly  straight  trunk  was  entirely  bare  of  limbs  to  the 
height  of  ninety  feet,  but  above  that  was  a  luxuriant 
coronal  of  foliage.  In  that  year  the  lightning  scored 
a  ghastly  wound  completely  down  its  tall,  straight 
trunk  and  began  to  dry  up  its  life  blood.  Limbs 
fell  from  it  from  time  to  time  ;  and  twice  again  the 
lightning  scathed  it.  Still,  the  little  vitality  which  it 
retained  was  tenderly  and  carefully  cherished  by  a 
loving  community.  In  its  palmy  days  strangers 
sang  its  praises  and  the  citizens  gazed  upon  it  with 
pride.  In  its  days  of  blight,  when  a  few  green 
boughs,  and  two  or  three  withered  and  shattered 
limbs  alone  remained  to  crown  it,  the  stranger  still 
greeted  it  with  admiration  and  the  citizen  watched 
it  with  reverent  love. 

On  the  5th  of  July,  1864,  it  was  found  to  be  bend 
ing  under  its  own  weight  and  it  was  gently  lowered 
from  its  place,  literally  amid  the  tears  of  stern-faced 
men,  unused  to  tears.  Its  rings  showed  it  to  be 
three  hundred  and  forty  years  old.  Its  wood  was 
wrought  into  souvenirs,  to  which  I  was  presumptu 
ous  enough  to  add  the  foregoing  song. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


KING  GREYLOCK'S  MOUNTAIN  HEIGHT. 

Written  for  and  Sung  at  the  Humphrey  Association  Festival, 
Pittsfield,  May  i,  1856. 

With  mirth  and  melody,  ho,  to-night 

To  scale  King  Greylock's  mountain  height. 

While  many  a  wild  recess  profound 

Sends  rattling  back  the  echoing  sound, 

As  we  startle  the  sleepy  forest  glades 

With  the  joyous  shout  of  our  madcap  maids  ; 

For  never  a  merrier  band  than  they 

Ere  climbed  at  eve  this  mountain  way ! 

CHORUS. — Then,  ho,  on  our  rude  steep  path,  away! 
With  the  morrow's  light  on  the  mountain 

height ; 
We  must  hail  the  coming  pomp  of  day  ! 

Oh,  whether  its  groves  in  sunlight  lie 
Or  glamour  moonbeams  cheat  the  eye, 
'Tis  a  laughing  light  orf  the  mountain  side, 
"  That  owl-eyed  care  can  never  abide ;" 
And  his  worldly  chain  that  worldlings  wear 
Is  loosed  at  the  magical  touch  of  our  air, 
Earth's  spell  is  broke  and  the  heart  is  free 
As  childhood's  in  its  frolic  glee  ! 


90  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

CHORUS. — Then,  ho,  on  our  rude  steep  path,  away ! 
With  the  morrow's  light  on  the  mountain 

height ; 
We  must  hail  the  coming  pomp  of  day  ! 

Our  beacon  fire  this  night  shall  glow, 

A  gem  on  the  monarch  mountain's  brow, 

Or  far  to  our  dear  home  valley  gleam, 

A  new  found  love  star's  kindling  beam. 

Then  sweeter  couch  ne'er  wooed  to  rest 

Then  the  springy  boughs  from  the  hill's  green  crest 

For  these  our  fragrant  couch  shall  be, 

With  the  star-gemmed  night  for  canopy  ! 

CHORUS. — Then,  ho,  on  our  rude  steep  path,  away ! 
With  the  morrow's  light  on  the  mountain 

height ; 
We  must  hail  the  coming  pomp  of  day ! 


WAHCONAH  FALLS. 


SOUVENIR  I'ERSE  AND  STORY.  91 


GREYLOCK  AND  WAHCONAH  FALLS. 

As  a  feature  in  their  scenery  the  double  peaks  of 
the  Greylock  mountain  range, 

"  Where  look  majestic  forth 
From  their  twin  thrones  the  Giants  of  the  North,  " 

are  quite  as  highly  prized  in  Pittsfield  and  Dalton, 
the  southernmost  towns  in  the  upper  Berkshire 
valley,  as  they  are  in  those  of  their  immediate  vicinity. 
Greylock  proper,  the  highest  peak  of  the  range, 
and  the  loftiest  mountain  summit  in  Massachusetts, 
rises  more  than  thirty-five  hundred  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea  and  about  twenty-five  hundred 
above  the  valley  bottom  in  the  towns  named.  It 
affords  a  grand  terminal  for  the  magnificent  vista 
which,  extending  twenty  miles  northward,  has  the 
Hoosac  Mountains  for  its  eastern  wall  and  the 
Taconics  for  its  western.  Naturally  this  mountain, 
with  its  broad  and  grand  overviews,  is  a  favorite 
point  for  excursions  with  the  people  of  Pittsfield  and 
Dalton,  and  for  their  summer  guests,  as  it  is  with 
those  of  other  towns.  Those  who  wish  to  make  the 
most  of  such  a  trip  spend  the  night  on  the  mountain 
top  to  witness  the  splendid  spectacle  of  the  next 
morning's  sunrise  ;  and  they  often — or  at  least  often 
did  at  the  time  the  foregoing  song  was  written — 
kindle  bonfires  which  can  be  seen  twenty  miles 
away;  although  appearing  hardly  larger  than  a  star 
of  the  first  magnitude. 


92  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AXD  STORY. 

Pittsfield  and  Dalton,  by  virtue  of  their  multitude 
of  superb  and  varied  landscapes — aided  perhaps  by 
the  fame  of  some  curiously  interesting  manufac 
tures — aie  constantly  becoming  greater  favorites 
with  summer  rest  and  pleasure  seekers  as  these 
attractions  become  more  and  more  widely  known 
to  the  wide  world  beyond  the  mountains.  And, 
among  the  most  romantic  and  picturesque  localities 
which  distinguish  Dalton,  Wahconah  Falls  must  be 
counted ;  for  although  they  are  in  the  township  of 
Windsor,  they  are  so  close  upon  the  borders  of  the 
sister  town,  and  are  otherwise  so  completely  identi 
fied  with  it,  that  they  properly  come  within  that 
purview.  They  come  also  within  the  scope  of  our 
souvenirs ;  for  although  the  Lake  and  the  Falls  are 
some  fifteen  miles  apart,  they — and  Greylock  as 
well — are  associated  in  some  of  my  fondest  mem 
ories  ;  for  it  was  in  the  same,  to  me  delightful,  years, 
that,  in  the  company  of  dear  and  congenial  friends 
I  learned  to  admire  and  love  them  all.  In  those 
days  the  Falls  were  hardly  known  beyond  their 
immediate  neighborhood,  except  to  a  few  lovers 
of  nature's  hidden  nooks;  her  gems  of  the  pic 
turesque,  which  they  held  the  more  precious  that,  to 
be  found  they  must  be  sought.  It  must  be  con 
fessed,  however,  that  the  setting  of  these  gems  was 
rather  rude  forty-two  years  ago,  as  the  shores  of 
Lake  Onota  were. 

Now  the  Falls  are  widely  noted  and  appreciated 
as  among  the  most  romantically  beautiful  spots  in 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  93 

Berkshire  ;  and  their  setting  is  no  longer  rude. 
Among  those  who  in  times  past,  most  fully  recognized 
and  most  highly  prized  their  picturesque  beauty 
was  Hon.  Zenas  Marshall  Crane,  who  manifested 
his  regard  by  purchasing  their  locality,  chiefly  for 
that  beauty.  And  his  sons,  Hon.  Messrs.  Zenas  and 
Winthrop  Murray  Crane,  inheriting  that  regard, 
together  with  the  ownership,  and  honoring  their 
father's  memory,  have  so  greatly  improved  the 
grounds  that  the  many  excursionists  who  are  now 
attracted  to  the  spot  come  away  gratefully  pro 
nouncing  them  a  park,  handsome  and  fitting  for  its 
place. 

I  copy  a  description  of  the  scene,  which  I  gave 
some  years  ago  : 

"  We  soon  came  to  the  Falls — a  romantic  minia 
ture  cataract,  just  far  enough  removed  from  the 
highway  to  be  sheltered  from  the  too  careless  eye. 
Wahconah  Brook,  one  of  the  larger  eastern  branches 
of  the  Housatonic  river,  here  pours  between  per 
pendicular  cliffs  of  dark  gray  rock  a  considerable 
volume  of  water,  which,  in  two  or  three  rapid  leaps, 
makes  a  descent  of  seventy  or  eighty  feet.  The 
dark  precipitous  cliffs  form  a  somber  and  striking 
vista,  while  the  black  and  glossy  surface  of  the 
brook  affords  a  fine  contrast  with  the  silvery  foam 
into  which  it  breaks.  The  peculiar  charm  that 
wins  for  the  Falls  so  many  and  so  constant  admirers 
is,  however,  indefinable.  Perhaps  it  lies  in  the 
harmonious  mingling  of  many.  But  be  that  as  it 


94  SOUVENIR   VERSE  AND  STORY. 

may,  the  spot  is  one  of  those  which  can  never  fail 
us  for  a  delightful  hour.  The  swift,  smooth  gliding 
of  a  brook  always  begets  pleasurable  emotions,  and 
there  is  rare  music  in  the  free  dash  of  a  waterfall 
undisturbed  by  the  clatter  of  machinery." 

The  view  of  the  Falls  which  is  here  presented  is 
considered  excellent  by  those  familiar  with  them, 
except  that  their  height  is  not  adequately  repre 
sented.  To  not  a  few  excursionists  the  view  will  be 
a  pleasing  souvenir  of  pleasant  hours. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  95 

P1NOS  LOQUENTES  SEMPER  HABEMUS. 

"  Lowland  trees  may  lean  to  this  side  or  to  that, 
though  it  is  but  a  meadow  breeze  that  bends  them, 
or  a  bank  of  cowslips  from  which  their  trunks  lean 
aslope.  But  let  storm  or  avalanche  do  their  worst ; 
and  let  the  pine  find  only  a  ledge  of  vertical  prec 
ipice  to  cling  to,  it  will  nevertheless  grow  straight. 
Thrust  a  rod  irom  its  last  shoot,  down  the  stem;  it 
shall  point  to  the  center  of  the  earth  as  long  as  the 
tree  stands.  Other  trees  tufting  crag 

and  hill,  yield  to  the  form  and  sway  of  the  ground  ; 
clothing  it  with  soft  compliance,  are  partly  its  sub 
jects,  partly  its  flatterers,  partly  its  comforters.  But 
the  pine  rises  in  serene  resistance,  self-contained." 

RUSKIN. 

All  hail  to  the  pine,  to  our  own  tasseled  pine, 

The  pride  of  our  forests,  the  boast  of  our  story  ; 

A  health  to  his  tassels  !  still  green  let  them  shine, 
To  remind  the  new  times  of  the  old  fields  of  glory  ! 

'Twas  he  to  our  fathers  on  Plymouth's  bleak  shore, 

The  first  shelter  gave  and  the  first  welcome  bore. 

Then  a  health  to  thy  tassels,  our  own  native  pine ; 

A  halo  of  glory  above  us  they  shine  ! 

All  hail  to  the  pine  on  our  banner  that  waved 

Ere  plumed  was  our  eagle  or  starry  fl;igs  floated  ! 

On  field  and  on  fortress  where  tyrants  were  braved 
The  pine  on  that  banner  the  victor  denoted. 


96  SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

It  marched  in  the  van  where  our  minutemen  met ; 
Its  folds  with  the  blood  of  our  Warren  were  wet  : 
Grand  voices  of  story  heroic  are  thine, 
And  we  thrill  to  thy  murmurs  proud,  eloquent  pine- 

All  hail  to  the  pine,  fadeless  type  of  the  true  ! 

The  changeless  in  beauty,  unbending,  undaunted. 
The  banner  of  green  to  the  May  breeze  he  threw, 

In  the  gales  of  December,  as  boldly  are  flaunted. 
He  dares  the  fierce  blast  when  the  tempest  sweeps  by, 
Nor  faints  in  the  glare  from  the  hot  summer  sky. 
Grand  poet,  pure    teacher,   High    Priest  of  Truth's 

shrine, 
Thou  art  evermore  with  us,  thrice  eloquent  pine  ! 


THANKSGIVING  MORNING  SONG. 

Air,  Auld  Lang  Sync. 

We  meet  again  around  the  hearth 
Where  oft  we  used  to  come  ; 

We've  gathered  from  the  wilds  of  Earth 
To  this  our  father's  home. 

CHORUS. — We'll  wake  again  the  joys  of  old, 

The  joys  of  old  so  dear ; 
And  memory  with  her  chain  of  gold, 
Shall  closer  bind  us  here  ! 


SOUVENIR  I' ERSE  AND  STORY.  97 

The  dust  and  clouds  of  toil  and  care 

The  world  hath  o'er  us  flung, 
Shall  vanish  in  the  pure,  clear  air 

We  breathed  when  we  were  young. 

CHORUS. — \\V11  wake  again,  etc. 

The  noisy  clang  of  jarring  throngs 

Shall  vex  our  ear  no  more 
Nor  break  upon  the  peaceful  songs 

We  loved  and  sang  of  yore  ! 

CHORU?. — We'll  wake  again,  etc. 

Bring  back  the  sports  of  old  that  came 
With  each  Thanksgiving's  glee  : 

No  child  shall  join  in  childhood'sgame 
More  light  of  heart  than  we. 

CHORUS. —We'll  wake  again,  etc. 

We've  left  the  haunts  of  common  mirth, 

We've  gathered,  one  and  all, 
To  hold  around  our  father's  hearth, 

Our  father^'  festival. 

CHORUS. — We'll  wake  again  the  joys  of  old, 

The  joys  of  old  so  dear; 
And  memory  with  her  chains  of  gold, 
Anew  shall  bind  us  here  ! 


98  SOUl'EXJR  VERSE  AND  STORV. 


THANKSGIVING  EVENING  SONG. 

We  have  met  again  in  our  father's  home, 
Round  the  hearth  where  we  used  of  old  to  come. 
We    have    prayed   in    the   church   where   of    old  we? 

prayed  ; 

Our  steps  have  been  where  of  old  they  strayed  ; 
We  have  felt  the  breeze  that  was  wont  to  play 
With  our  youthful  locks  on  Thanksgiving  Day. 
We  have  greeted  each  scene  we  loved  to  greet ; 
We  have  sat  at  the  board  where  we  used  to  meet  : 
Oh,  why  should  a  shadow  b?  o'er  us  cast, 
As  you  sing  to-night,  glad  songs  of  the  past? 

We  meet  again  but  we  meet  not  all 

Who  were  wont  to  come  at  our  father's  call. 

We  have  knelt  where  they  prayed,  but  still  and  cold 

Are  the  hearts  whose  glow  warmed  ours  of  old. 

We  have  roamed  each  haunt  where  we  loved  to  rove  ;• 

By  the  rippling  brook,  in  the  whispering  grove  : 

The  wood  and  the  streamlet  murmured  still 

As  when,  like  glad  music,  their  sounds  could  thrill  ::. 

But  we  missed  the  silvery  laugh  that  gave 

Their  tone  of  joy  to  the  wood  and  the  wave. 

No ;  we  meet  in  our  home  :  but  not  as  of  yore. 
It  hath  lost  a  charm  to  be  found  no  more  : 
From  our  festal  wreath  the  rose  is  gone, 
The  fairest  star  from  our  sky  of  morn, 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.  99 

From  our  choral  band  the  sweetest  voice. 

When  your  songs  in  the  gladness  of  youth  rejoice, 

An  unvoiced  burden  comes,  deep  and  clear, 

To  our  inmost  souls  :  "  They  are  not  here  !  " 

It  is  thus  that:  a  shadow  is  o'er  us  cast, 

While  you  sing  to-night  glad  songs  of  the  past. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

Hark  to  the  bells  !  the  Christmas  bells, 

Come  again  with  their  olden  voices ! 
The  air  rebounds  to  the  joyous  sounds 

And  the  waking  world  rejoices  ! 
The  crystal  chimes  !  the  merry  chimes  ! 

On  Christmas  day  at  morning. 
They  welcome  the  blaze  of  the  festal  rays 

That,  bright,  in  the  east  are  dawning. 

Now  joy  to  earth  and  chainless  mirth  ; 

All  the  revels  of  yore  repeating  ! 
Warm  hands  be  pressed,  and  your  neighbor  blessed 

With  the  old  and  kindly  greeting  ! 
And  peal  the  chimes,  the  olden  chimes 

Of  Christmas  day  at  morning, 
And  sing  the  songs,  the  olden  songs, 

That  hailed  its  festal  dawning  ! 

Bring  the  brighter  sheen  of  our  native  green, 

If  you  lack  the  glossy  holly ; 
To  deck  the  hearth  for  a  sign  of  mirth, — 

And,  perchance,  of  harmless  folly, 
But  bring  us  these,  if  naught  but  these, 

Warm  hearts  with  kindness  glowing, 
And  sunny  eyes  where  laughter  lies 

And  lovelight  overflowing ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


ODE  FOR  INDEPENDENCE  DAY. 

Hark  !  a  nation's  shouts  ascend  ! 
Hark  a  myriad  voices  blend  ! 
From  your  thrones  of  glory  bend, 
Sires  of  Liberty  ! 

From  each  proud  empurpled  field 
Where  your  blood  our  freedom  sealed, 
Spirit  tongues  to-day  have  pealed 
Freedom's  Jubilee  ! 

Where  the  smoke  of  battle  curled, 
Where  the  bolt  of  death  was  hurled 
Ye  our  starry  flag  unfurled, 

Floating  o'er  the  free  ! 

In  the  dark  and  trying  time, 
Arming  for  your  native  clime, 
Ye  stood  in  native  might  sublime. 
Undauntedly  ! 

Flashing  sword  and  burning  word, 
By  foe  men  felt,  by  freemen  heard, 
Plumed  our  country's  banner  bird 
Right  gallantly  ! 

Patriot  sires  of  glory's  clays, 
While  the  world  resounds  your  praise, 
Hear  the  songs  your  children   raise. 
Songs  of  Liberty  ! 


SOUVENIR  I'ERSE  AND  STORY. 


REAPERS'  HYMN. 

Now  joy  for  the  land 

With  garnered  fruits  o'erflowing, 
Of  plains  that  teem  with  golden  grains, — 

Our  own,  our  native  land  ; 
And  be  His  grateful  praises  pealed 
Who  bade  the  earth  her  increase  yield, 
And  gave  each  fertile  field  ! 

Oh,  praise,  praise  His  hand  ! 

Your  praise,  brothers,  bring 

For  Autumn's  glowing  treasures, 

For  golden  rays  of  summer  days 
And  showers  of  the  spring. 

We're  bearing  home  the  glorious  spoil 

We've  gathered  from  our  own  free  soil, 

We've  won  by  honest  toil : 
Right  joyfully  sing ! 

With  joy,  reapers,  sing; 

No  tyrant  arm  is  o'er  us. 
The  fields  we've  sown  were  all  our  own ; 

Oh,  gratefully  sing ! 

And  when  we  take  their  fruit  and  grain, 
Our  souls  are  free  from  robber  stain. 
With  heart  and  voice  again, 
Then  praise,  brothers,  bring  ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AXD  STORY. 


A  NORTHLAND  SONG. 

Xet  weaklings  rly  to  a  Southern  sky 

When  our  own  gleams  somewhat  coldly ; 
We'll  have  our  bout  with  the  storm  king  out, 

And  face  his  legions  boldly. 
'Tis  a  joyous  time  when  the  glittering  rime 

O'er  all  our  landscape  gloweth  ; 
..And  our  warm  blood  thrills  on  the  Boreal  hills 

When  the  quickening  north  wind  bloweth. 

Old  Winter  came  our  lives  to  tame. 

And  rule  with  a  tyrant's  rigor ; 
But  we  fought  him  long  till  our  hearts  grew  strong 

As  we  made  our  own  his  vigor ! 
We've  laughed  at  his  rage  from  youth  to  age, 

And  joyed  in  his  mad  disporting  : 
'The  blasts  of  his  pride  with  glee  defied  ; 

A  tiff  with  his  wild  gales  courting. 

On  his  roughest  day,  we  trudged  our  way 

To  the  hut  of  birch-sped  learning, 
On  our  snow-piled  path  from  his  tempest's  wrath 

In  his  fiercest  mood  ne'er  turning. 
His  nipping  nights,  our  young  delights 

Made  soft  with  their  sweet  compelling; 
And  our  jangled  bells  to  his  hills  and  dells, 

Rang  out,  our  victorv  telling  ! 


io4          SOUVENIR   I'EKSE  AND  STORK 

In  his  lordliest  hour,  we  braved  his  power, 

When  his  snows  the  hilltops  crested  : 
Shall  we  turn  and  flee — no,  no  !  not  we  ! — 

from  the  blasts  we  so  oft  have  breasted  ? 
Let  weaklings  fly  to  a  Southern  sky 

When  our  own  gleams  somewhat  coldly  ; 
We'll  have  our  bout  with  the  storm  king  out 

And  face  his  legions  boldly  ! 


THE  LOGGER'S  SONG. 

Up,  brothers,  join  our  march  to-night. 
The  crinkling  snow  is  sparkling  bright; 
The  ringing  echoes  far  prolong 
The  chorus  of  our  wild  road  song, 
And  the  startled  deer  from  his  covert  springs. 
As  our  shout  through  the  forest  arches  rings, 
And  off  to  his  mountain  fastness  hies, 
Where  silver-white  Katahdin  lies 
Aglow  with  the  full  moon's  light  ! 

CHORUS. — Come  away  then,  ye  stalwart  pack, 

To  the  forest  deep,  where  the  wild  deer  leap,. 
And  the  moose,  o'er  our  frozen  track  ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSP:  AND  STORY.       105 

Up,  comrades  ;  leave  your  dull  fireside  ! 
Through  cloudless  skies  the  moonbeams  glide  ; 
Your  Northern  blood  will  leap,  I  ween, 
Where  cuts  the  night  air  clear  and  keen, 
While  the  golden  stars  with  a  softer  beam 
Through  the  frozen  mist  of  the  river  gleam, 
And,  garlanded  with  radiant  snow, 
The  pines  their  tasseled  branches  throw 
Far  over  our  pathway  wild. 

CHORUS. — Come,  away  then,  ye  stalwart  pack, 

To  the  forest  deep  where  the  wild  deer  leap. 
And  the  moose,  o'er  our  frozen  track  ! 

One  gentle  thought  to  some  we  leave 
Who'll  miss  our  step  this  fall  of  eve ; 
For  maiden  thoughts  full  oft  will  stray 
From  festal  rooms  to  the  woods  away  : 
And  we — we  will  chime  with  the  wintry  blast 
As  he  whistles  our  forest  dwelling  past, 
A  song  to  tell  the  rushing  storm 
That  the  Logger's  heart  beats  true  and  warm 
For  the  fair  and  far  away. 

CHORUS. — Then  up  and  away,  ye  stalwart  pack, 

To  the  forest  deep,  where  the  wild  deer  leap, 
And  the  moose,  o'er  our  frozen  track  ! 


106          SOUVENIR  I/ERSE  AND  STORY. 
A  SONG  OF  MAY. 

Air,  "  Love  iVot." 

Blow  on,  blow  on, 
Ye  balmy  winds  of  Spring, 

As  o'er  my  grateful  cheek  but  now  ye  strayed  ; 
What  dreamy  bliss  your  soft  caresses  bring ; 
Gaily  around  me  thus  of  old  ye  played. 
Blow  on,  blow  on. 

J3eam  out,  beam  out, 
Thou  laughing  sun  of  May  ; 

Oh,  pour  your  brightest  beams  on  youthful  love  ; 
Buoyant  of  old  beneath  a  sky  as  gay, 
Of  hope  and  joy  my  web  of  life  I  wove. 
Beam  out,  beam  out. 

Flow  on,  flow  on, 
Thou  silver-leaping  rill; 

To  yon  fair  grove  where  chants  the  tuneful  bird  ; 
Not  one  bright  joy  hath  lost  the  power  to  thrill 
With  which  my  glad  young  heart  of  old  was  stirred. 
Flow  on,  flow  on. 


SOUVEXIR  I'ERSE  A  AD  STORV.          107 


THE  SACHEM'S  DAUGHTER. 

Bright  as  the  foam  on  Casco's  water 

Ere  it  played  round  the  white  man's  prow, 
Was  the  laughing  eye  of  the  Sachem's  daughter, 

So  cold  and  rayless  now. 
Oh,  what  was  the  spell  in  the  stranger's  glances 

That  hath  blighted  our  fairest  flower; 
For  she  joins  no  more  our  greenwood  dances, 

Nor  smiles  the  livelong  hour. 

Once  on  the  breeze  Kencluska's  laughter 

Through  the  forest  arches  rung, 
While  the  woodland  sprites  sent  echoes  after, 

And  wild  flowers  o'er  her  flung. 
But  when  the  spray  in  the  moonlight  glistened, 

And  she  stood  by  the  murmuring  shore, 
To  the  stranger's  sung  our  wild  bird  listened, 

And  sings  her  own  no  more. 

She  stood  on  the  sad,  lone  beach,  beholding 

The  sea-mist  fly  from  the  morn's  array, 
When  the  stranger's  ship,  white  wings  unfolding, 

Sped  swiftly  from  our  bay. 
Oh,  say,  when  afar  in  the  blue  it  vanished, 

Did  it  carry  our  sister's  light  ? 
For  the  star-beams  from  her  eye  are  banished  ; 

They  do  not  cheer  her  night. 


io8          SOUVENIR  VERSE  A.\D  STORY. 


THE  PRETTY  ROSALIE. 

Where  the  lights  so  cheerily 

O'er  youth  and  beauty  glow, 
There  with  pretty  Rosalie 

The  moments  sparkling  flow, 
With  a  Tra,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la  ! 

But  my  pretty  Rosalie, 
At  home  I'd  like  to  know, 

So  cheery  would  you  be, 
When,  pit-pat,  pit-pat  raindrops  go  > 

Heigho  !  Would  you  though, 
With  your  Tra,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la  ! 

Where  the  music  merrily 

In  joyous  chorus  rings. 
There  the  pretty  Rosalie 

Enchanteth  while  she  sings, 
Tra,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la  ! 

But,  my  pretty  Rosalie, 
At  home  I'd  like  to  know, 

So  would  you  sing  that  strain, 
Married  should  we  be, 

When  pit-pat  raindrops  go  ? 
Pit-pat  choruseth  the  rain  ; 

Not  Tra,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AATD  STORY.          109 

SERENADE. 

All  is  still ;  no  voices  wake  ; 

On  all  the  charmed  air, 
No  murmurs  break  ; 

No  song  nor  sound  is  there  ; 
Save  but  where 

Peals  our  lone  lay, 
O  lady  fair,  to  thee, 

While  the  winds  stay  their  wild  way, 
To  listen  silently. 

Calm  and  clear,  looks  down  the  while 
Fond  night  with  tender  eyes. 

Her  sweetest  smile 
On  all  around  us  lies — 

Softly  lies. 
List  now  our  lay, 

O  lady  fair,  to  thee, 
While  the  winds  stay  their  wild  way 

To  harken  breathlessly. 

Summer  nights  are  fair,  but  fleet. 

Soon  comes  the  morn  ! 
With  smile  more  sweet, 

The  smiling  scene  adorn, 
Ere  it  be  gone  ; 

And  list  our  lay, 
O,  lady  fair,  to  thee, 

While  the  winds  stay  their  wild  way 
To  harken  silently  ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


NOT  THROUGH  GLORY'S  MYRTLE  ARCHES. 

Not  through  glory's  myrtle  arches, 
Not  with  proud  triumphal  marches, 

Shall  we  reach  our  Heavenly  home  ; 
But  through  paths  oft  wild  and  dreary, 
And  with  footsteps  worn  and  weary, 

To  the  Rest  of  God  we  come. 

Not  by  deeds  that  live  in  story, — 
Deeds  that  win  a  martyr's  glory, 

Can  our  Heavenly  crown  be  won  ; 
But  by  faith  devout  and  holy, 
By  a  spirit  meek  and  lowly, 

When  our  greatest  work  is  done. 

By  the  prayer  in  secret  glowing, 
By  the  tear  in  secret  flowing, 

Must  our  Heavenward  race  be  won  ; 
By  Calvary's  rugged  path  ascending, 
On  the  cross  alone  depending, 

When  our  purest  work  is  done. 


SOUl'ENJR   I'ERSE  AXD  STORY. 


EVENING  HYMN. 

The  gorgeous  day  on  sunny  wing 

Hath  sped  his  weary  flight, 
And  stars  in  milder  glory  bring 

The  welcome  hours  of  night : 
To  Thee,  our  guide,  our  guard  by  day, 

Its  peaceful  close  be  given. 
O,  thou  who  cheered  our  toilsome  way, 

Receive  our  praise  at  even. 

For  strength  when  sultry  noontide  glowed, 

For  love  that  crowns  the  eve  ; 
For  every  good  Thou  hast  bestowed, 

Our  grateful  praise  receive. 
Thou  wast  our  guide,  our  guard  by  nay  ; 

To  Thee  its  close  be  given. 
O  Thou  who  cheered  our  toilsome  way, 

Receive  our  praise  at  even. 

And  when  our  life's  brief  day  declines, 

So  calmly  fade  its  light, 
While  brighter,  and  yet  brighter  shines 

Faith's  star  upon  the  night. — 
O,  guard  us  through  life's  weary  day, 

Guide  to  its  peaceful  even ; 
And  when  its  last  gleam  fades  away, 

Receive  our  praise  in  Heaven. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 


OUR  WARRIOR  WORLD. 

Here's  speed  to  the  World,  our  own  round  World, 

As  he  rolls  through  the  realms  of  space  ! 
'Gainst  Time  and  his  steeds,  on  his  way  he  speeds, 

Nor  tires  in  the  breathless  race. 
But  as  on  he  hies,  from  more  he  flies 

Than  his  twin-born  rival,  Time, 
For  there  follow  still,  foul  forms  and  ill, — 

Dire  Woes  and  their  father,  Crime. 
Then  pray  for  the  World,  our  own  swift  World, 

As  he  rolls  through  the  realms  of  space  ; 
'Gainst  Woe  and  Crime,  with  strength  sublime, 

Pie  speeds  on  his  fearful  race. 

Here's  strength  to  the  World,  our  own  brave  World, 

For  he  battles  as  he  flies  ! 
He  hath  battled  long,  and  many  a  wrong 

About  his  pathway  dies; 
Earth's  giant  woes,  in  mortal  throes, 

With  wounds  are  writhing  sore  ; 
But  he  girds  his  might  for  the  race  and  fight 

Till  the  battle  shall  be  o'er. 
Then  pray  for  the  World,  our  own  brave  World, 

As  he  rolls  through  the  realms  of  space  ; 
'Gainst  Woe  and  Crime,  in  strength  sublime, 

He  speeds  to  the  fight  and  race. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.          113 

Here's  joy  to  the  World,  our  glad,  strong  World, 

As  he  sweeps  on  his  viewless  wings  ! 
With  the  Thunder's  voice  his  hills  rejoice, 

And  the  Storm  his  triumph  sings. 
But  his  gladdest  strain  hath  a  bold  refrain, 

With  a  shrill  alarum  tone  ; 
For  he  battles  still  the  hosts  of  111 

Till  the  Right  shall  reign  alone. 
Then  pray  for  the  World,  our  Warrior  World, 

That  he  conquer  to  the  end, 
When  the  choral  spheres,  for  mortal  ears, 

Again  their  songs  shall  blend. 


n4          SOUVEXJR  I'ERSE  AND  STORY. 


THE -FAIRIES  OF  THE  HILLS. 

[A  cantata,  written  for  a  Soiree  Musicale  of  the  Maplewoodl 
Young  Ladies'  Institute,  Pittsfield,  February  7,  1856.  Music 
by  James  L.  Ensign.] 

SOLO, — First  Fairy. 

Right  joyous  sprites,  and  blithe,  be  we, 

Who  gaily  live  and  daintily; 

For  our  home  is  the  green  old  mountain  vale 

Afar  from  the  city's  mournful  wail, 

And  the  task  the  Master  gives  us  there 

Is  to  render  all  things  bright  and  fair. 

Full  Chorus  of  Fairies. 

And  a  dainty  life  we  live  alway 

In  the  darkling  wood  and  the  sparkling  ray_ 

First  Semi  Chorus. 

We  build  the  woodland  arches  fair, 
We  hang  the  leaflet  cui  tains  there. 

Second  Semi  Chorus. 

We  lay  the  carpet  of  velvet  green, 
We  polish  the  mirrored  lake,  serene. 

First  Semi  Chorus. 

We  paint  the  rlowers  of  varied  hue. 

Second  Semi  Chorus. 

We  tint  the  sky  with  its  deepest  blue. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.          115 

First  Semi  Chorus. 

We  silver  the  cloud. 

Second  Semi  Chorus. 
We  gem  the  foam. 

The  Two  Semi  Choruses. 

And  thus  we  build  us  a  fairy  home  ! 

Full  Chorus. 

Aye,  and  a  dainty  life,  etc. 

SOLO, — Second  Fairy. 

And  glad  alway  is  our  dainty  life, 

With  a  myriad  rarest  pleasures  rife. 

For  our  music,  we  list  to  rill  or  bird, 

Or  laughter  from  gypsying  childhood  heard  ; 

Or  a  softer  voice  may  thrill  the  grove — 

For  our  fairy  home  is  the  bower  of  love. 

Third  and  Fourth  Fairies. 

Thus  we  live  till  the  emerald  hues  we've  laid 
On  Summer  leaves  begin  to  fade  ; 
Then,  when  along  the  Western  skies, 
Day  like  the  changeful  dolphin  dies, 
We  steal  the  tints  of  the  gorgeous  eves 
To  hide  the  blight  on  the  forest  leaves, 
Till  anew  the  Autumn  hillsides  glow 
With  a  splendor  Summer  woods  ne'er  know, 

Semi  Chorus. 

That  Summer  woods  ne'er  know. 


n6          SOUVENIR  VERSE  AA7D  STORY. 

Full  Chorus. 

And  a  dainty  life  we  live  alway 

In  the  darkling  wood  and  the  sparkling  ray. 

First  Semi  Chorus. 

We  crimson  the  maple,  we  gild  the  beech  ; 
Each  leaf  some  strange  bright  hue  we  teach. 

Second  Semi  Chorus. 

The  valley  had  never  a  fairer  scene, 

The  streamlet  had  never  a  brighter  sheen. 

First  Semi  Chorus. 

But  fairest  splendor  must  fade  and  die, 

Second  Semi  Chorus. 

Then  summon  our  chariot  birds  and  fly  ! 

First  Semi  Chorus. 

The  Summer  is  past. 

Second  Semi  Chorus. 

The  storms  will  come. 

The  Two  Semi  Choruses. 

Then  hie  away  from  our  fairy  home  ! 
Farewell !  Farewell  !  Farewell !  Farewell ! 

Full  Chorus. 

Farewell  to  the  bowers  where  we  lay 
In  the  laughing  leafy  Summer  day. 
Farewell !  Farewell! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND 'STORY.          117 


CHILDREN'S  SONGS. 

Forty-two  years  ago  I  wrote  a  number  of  songs 
for  "The  Wreath  of  School  Songs ;"  a  little  music 
book  published  at  Boston,  which  had  a  remarkably 
wide  use  in  Maine,  Massachusetts,  and  probably 
other  states.  I  copy  here  four  of  the  songs; 
wondering  whether  they  will  be  souvenirs  of  their 
schooldays  to  any  of  the  many  thousands  who  sang 
them  in  their  childhood.  If  not,  it  may  be  that  forty- 
two  years  hence,  when  this  book  shall  have  been 
forgotten  by  almost  every  other  reader,  they  may 
be  souvenirs  to  my  little  Walter  and  Bessie,  of  the 
uncle  who  was  the  playmate  of  their  infancy,  before 
they  could  read  his  verses ;  or  even  tease  him  for 
stories. 

LONG,  LONG  AGO. 
Air,  '''Long  Ago." 

Tell  me  the  tale  of  the  friends  that  you  loved 

Long,  long  ago. 
Tell  me  of  those  by  whose  side  you  have  roved 

Long,  long  ago. 

Say  were  your  schoolmates  as  blithe  and  as  gay, 
Joyous  as  those  I  have  been  with  to-day? 
Who  were  the  children  you  met  in  your  play, 

Long,  long  ago  ? 


1 1 8          SO  UVENIR  VERSE  A ND  STOR  J '. 

What  were  the  pleasures  you  joyed  in  at  home, 

Long,  long  ago  ? 
What  were  the  meadows  enticed  you  to  roam, 

Long,  long  ago  ? 

Mother,  sweet  mother,  why  starteth  that  tear  ? 
Tell  me  the  tales  you  delighted  to  hear 
Told  by  the  friends  that  to  you  were  so  dear, 

Long,  long  ago. 

CHILDHOOD'S  HOME. 

Around  the  blazing  hearth  of  home. 

Night  and  day, 

With  happy  hearts  we  love  to  come, 
While  kindly  smiles  about  us  play  ; 

Night  and  day. 
Sweet  smiles  about  us  play  ! 

While  sweeps  the  wintry  blast  around, 

Cold  and  drear, 

We  love  to  hear  the  stormy  sound, 
While  cheerful  fire  is  glowing  near  ; 

Bright  and  clear. 
The  fire  is  glowing  near  ! 

Our  cheerful  songs  we  love  to  sing 

Around  the  hearth. 
We  love  to  make  our  voices  ring 
With  fairy  tales  and  words  of  mirth,  — 

Around  the  hearth, 
With  light  and  airy  mirth  ! 


SOUVENIR  I'ERSE  AND  STORY.          119 


VACATION  SONG. 

Come  out !  The  sunlight  calls  to  rove, 

And  breathe  the  balmy  air  ; 
Come,  wander  through  the  leafy  grove, 

And  by  the  streamlet  fair. 

We  come  on  sunny  meads  to  lie, 

And  sing  a  merry  strain  ; 
And  thus  vacation  moments  fly, 

Till  schooltime  comes  again. 

•Come  out  awhile,  my  schoolmates  all, 
From  thought  and  study  free  : 

Come  out  !  Obey  my  merry  call, 
To  careless,  frolic  glee  ! 

No  wonder  that  we  dearly  love 

Vacation's  happy  hours, 
'When  free  we  wander  through  the  grove, 

And  pluck  the  fragrant  flowers. 


GOD   IS   TEIERE. 

When  o'er  Earth  is  breaking 
Rosy  light  and  fair, 

Morn  afar  proclaimed"! 
Sweetlv  "  God  is  there." 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY, 

When  the  Spring  is  wreathing 
Flowers  rich  and  rare, 

On  each  leaf  is  written 
"  Nature's  God  is  there." 

When  the  storm  is  raging 
Through  the  midnight  air, 

In  mighty  tones  its  thunder 
Tells  us  "  God  is  there." 

All  the  wide  world  gives  us. 
Rich,  or  grand,  or  fair, 

Everywhere  bears  graven, 
"  God,  our  God,  is  there/' 


TRANSLATIONS 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.          123 


THE  VOYAGERS. 

From  the  German  of  Albert  Knapp. 

He  who  on  the  broad  Atlantic, 
Launches  from  his  native  strand 

Finds  no  draught  to  quench  his  thirsting 
Save  that  he  bears  from  land. 

Boundless  waters  may  surround  him, 
Countless  billows  round  him  play, 

But  not  all  of  that  salt  ocean 

Can  the  wanderer's  thirsting  stay. 

Child  of  man,  so  goest  thou  voyaging 
On  the  wide  \vorldrs  thronging  waves, 

And  not  all  its  whirl  of  waters 

Gives  the  draught  thy  bosom  craves. 

Fullest  overflow  of  pleasure 
Is  with  longing  sense  alloyed  ; 

All  its  billows,  rising,  sinking, 

Leave  the  soul  unstayecl  and  void. 

Thou  hast  need  of  other  water 

Than  the  stormy  world-sea  knows ; 
Pure  as  dews  when  morn  or  evening 

O 

In  the  rosy  heaven  glows. 


i24          SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Craves  thy  soul  a  living  water 

To  the  springs  of  Earth  unknown  ; 

Welling  from  the  Heavenly  fountains 
Fast  beside  the  Kternal  Throne. 

Go  out  upon  life's  bitter  ocean, 
But  that  purer  water  take. 

Ask  it  of  thy  gracious  Saviour, 
Who  will  all  thy  thirsting  slake. 

Who  from  Him  the  cup  receiveth 
Drinks  and  thirsteth  never  more 

Till  he  reach  the  Heavenly  haven 
On  the  everlasting  shore. 


THE  LAST  SHADOW. 

From  the  German  of  Albert  Knapp. 

Where,  in  the  hush'd  and  curtain'd  room, 
The  good  old  man  was  lying, 

A  gloom  upon  the  living  fell, 
But  radiance  on  the  dying. 

For  fourscore  years  this  checker'cl  earth, 

Of  sun  and  shade,  he  trod, 
And  walked — alike  in  firm-paced  youth 

And  tottering  age — with  Gcd. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

But  when  low,  sobbing  voices  asked  : 
"  How  fares  it  with  thee,  now  ? '' 

Light  not  of  earth,  while  thus  he  spake, 
Illumed  his  wrinkled  brow  : 

"  My  soul,  like  an  eagle,  seeks  the  skies, 
On  the  morning's  rosy  breath — 

Before  but  the  rising  sun  of  Life, 
Behind  but  the  Shadow — Death  !  " 


FAIR  CEDAR  TREE. 

Fair  cedar  tree  how  evergreen, 
How  changeless  are  thy  leaflets  ! 

We  greet  thy  shade  in  Summer's  glow, 

And,  beautiful  mid  Winter's  snow. 
We  turn  to  thee,  fair  cedar  tree 

And  bless  thy  changeless  leaflets. 

Oh  teach  to  man  thy  constant  truth ; 

Make  firm  his  faithless  bosom, 
Who  swears  to  stand  forever  true 
When  winds  are  fair  and  skies  are  blue 

But  flies  his  trusting  brother's  side, 
His  sorest  need  unaided. 


126          SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

The  nightingale,  false  nightingale, 
To  fickle  man  has  taught  her  lesson. 

Through  Summer  eves  she  breathes  delights, 

But  fails  the  fall  of  Winter  nights. 
The  nightingale,  false  nightingale, 

Change  with  the  times  has  taught  him. 

The  mountain  brook  is  rightly  mankind's  mirror 

Is  rightly  mankind's  mirror. 
It  mocks  the  swain  through  April  showers. 
But  fails  the  sultry  Summer  hours  ; 

The  mountain  brook,  false  mountain  brook, 
Is  rightly  mankind's  mirror. 

But  cedar  tree,  fair  cedar  tree, 

Still  changeless  are  thy  leaflets. 
We  greet  thy  shade  in  Summer's  glow, 
And  beautiful  mid  Winter's  snow, 

We  turn  to  thee,  dear  cedar  tree, 
And  bless  thy  changeless  leaflets. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.          127 


KORNER'S  BATTLE  HYMN. 

[Charles  Theodore  Korner  was  born  at  Dresden 
in  1791.  Before  he  was  twenty-two  years  old,  he 
won  a  fair,  although  not  very  great,  reputation  as  a 
poet.  In  1813  began  the  war  for  the  redemption  of 
Germany  from  the  tyranny  of  Napoleon  and  his 
invading  armies.  Then  young  Korner,  abandoning 
the  fairest  prospects  for  success  and  happiness 
in  civil  life,  took  up  the  sword  and  the  pen  in  behalf 
of  his  country's  freedom.  In  a  few  impassioned 
weeks, — besides  .eloquent  prose  in  support  of  the 
same  holy  cause — he  wrote  fervid,  patriotic,  martial 
poetry  which  seems  to  me  to  excel  in  every  respect 
any  verse  of  the  same  class  in  any  language — hardly 
excepting  La  Marseillaise  or  "  Scots,  wha  hae  wif 
Wallace  bled."  Early  in  his  military  service  he 
was  severely  wounded  ;  but,  returning  to  the  field, 
he  fell  in  battle,  August  26,  1813.  His  sister  died 
of  grief  for  his  loss,  surviving  him  only  long  enough 
to  paint  his  portrait  from  memory — a  touching  story 
which  afforded  Mrs.  Hemans  a  theme  for  her 
beautiful  poem,  "  Korner  and  his  Sister,"  of  which 
the  following  is  the  first  stanza  : 

"  Green  wave  the  oak  forever  o'er  thy  rest, 

Thou  that  beneath  its  crowning  foliage  sleepest, 

And  in  the  stillness  of  thy  country's  breast, 
Thy  place  of  memory  like  an  altar  keepest. 


128          SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Brightly  thy  spirit  o'er  her  hills  was  poured, 
Thou  of  the  Lyre  and  the  Sword." 

The  following  tender  adieu  is  the  closing  verse 
of  the  same  poem. 

"  Have  ye  not  met  ere  now  ?  So  let  those  trust 
That  meet  for  moments,  but  to  part  for  years, — 

Thatweep,watch,  pray,  to  hold  back  dust  from  dust. — 
That  love  where  love  is  but  a  fount  of  tears. 

Brother,  sweet  sister,  peace  around  ye  dwell  : 
Lyre,  s.vorcl  and  flower,  farewell !  " 


THE  BATTLE  HYMN. 

Shortly  before   his   death   Kcirner  wrote    the    Battle   Hymn, 
which  is  translated  below. 

Father,  on  Thee  I  call ! 

Darkly  the  clouds  of  the  battle  surround  me  ; 
Fiercely  the  sword  of  the  foe  flashes  round  me  ; 

God  of  the  battle,  on  Thee  I  call. 
Father,  be  Thou  my  guide ! 

Father,  be  Thou  my  guide  ; 
Lead  me  to  death,  or  to  victory  lead  me  ; 
Lead  where  the  cause  of  my  country  may  need  me  ; 

Lord,  where  Thou  wilt,  but  be  Thou  my  guide. 
Father,  Thy  power,  I  own  ! 


SOUVEXIR   I'ERSE  AXD  STORY.          129 

Father,  Thy  power,  I  own  ! 
As  in  the  fall  of  the  leaves  of  the  forest, 
So  when  we  yield  to  the  war's  iron  tempest, 

Fountain  of  glory.  Thy  power,  I  own. 
Father,  oh,  bless  Thy  son  ! 

Father,  oh,  bless  Thy  son  ! 
Calmly  my  life  to  Thy  hand  I  deliver  : 
Be  Thou  its  guardian,  as  Thou  wast  its  giver. 

Living  or  dying,  yet  bless  Thy  son  ! 
Father,  for  this  I  pray  ! 

Father,  to  Thee  I  pray  : 

'Tis  for  no  treasures  of  Earth  we're  contending  ; 
Holiest  of  rights,  with   the  sword,  we're  defending. 

Victor  or  vanquished,  to  Thee  I  pray  : 
Battling,  I  dare  to  pray  ! 


THE  LILIES  OF  THE  MUMMEL  SEE. 

Mummel  See  is  lone  and  drear, 

Yet  there  are  sweetest  lilies  blooming; 
And,  bending  low,  their  kiss  they  yield, 

The  wanton  breeze  of  morn  perfuming ; 
But  when  the  night  on  Earth  comes  down 
And  its  fair  queen  assumes  her  crown, 
From  the  dark  wave  each  flower  uprises, 
Like  youthful  maids  in  festal  guises. 


130          SOUVEi\'IR  I'ERSE  AND  STORY. 

The  winds  that  whistle  through  the  grove, 
Give  fitting  music  for  their  dances, 

While  on  the  shore  each  lily  maid 
Through  mazy  circles  deftly  glances. 

Their  graceful  form?,  how  slight !  how  frail ! 

How  white  their  robes  !  their  cheeks  how  pale  f 

Till  the  warm  dance  at  length  discloses 

Among  the  lilies,  blended  roses  ! 

Now  howls  the  wind  ;  now  rolls  the  storm, 

Through  gloomy  forests  fiercely  sweeping; 
The  moon  in  clouds  has  hid  her  form, 

And  murkier  shades  o'er  Earth  are  creeping. 
Still,  up  and  down,  the  dance  goes  round, 
To  the  tempest-tune,  on  the  rough  wet  ground  ; 
While  the  foam  on  the  lake-wave  whiter  Hashes 
As  its  crest  on  the  shore  it  higher  dashes. 


An  arm  from  out  the  lake  is  raised. 

A  giant  hand,  and  clenched,  outthrowing  : 
A  dripping  head  with  sedges  crowned, 

And  a  white  beard,  long  and  flowing. 
Then  a  voice  is  heard,  with  a  thunder  tone, 
That  echoes  afar  through  the  mountains  lone  : 
"  Back,  vagrant  lilies,  to  your  native  waters ! 
Back  to  your  homes,  unduteous  daughters  !" 

The  dance  is  stilled  ;  the  maids  grow  wan  ; 

'Tis  sad  to  hear  their  fitful  shrieking  : 
"Our father  calls  !    Ha!  morning  air! 

Back  then  ;  our  cheerless  waters  seeking."- 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.          131 

The  silver  mists  from  out  the  valley  rise, 
And  morning  painteth  gay  the  Eastern  skies; 
Again  the  lilies  to  the  winds  are  swaying, 
Their  pale  meek  heads  upon  the  waters  laying. 

NOTE.—  Mummel  See — Literally,  "The  Dismal  or  Gloomy 
Lake."  I  do  not  know  \\ho  is  the  author  of  this  ballad.  I 
found  it  many  years  ago  on  a  loose  leaf,  apparently  from  some 
German  magazine,  flying  before  the  wind  on  Boston  Common. 
I  thought  it  beautiful,  but  did  rot  translate  it  on  that  account; 
but  because  it  reminded  me  of  Melville  (since  called  Morewood) 
Lake,  in  the  Broadhall  grounds  in  Pittsfield.  That  romantic 
little  sheet  of  water  is  far  enough  from  being  gloomy,  dismal  or 
lone ;  but  it  has  an  abundance  of  lilies  on  its  surface,  so 
attractive  that  the  poet  Longfellow,  as  he  tells  us  in  his  diary, 
when  a  guest  at  Broadhall,  was  tempted  to  gather  son>e  of 
them  for  his  children,  at  some  considerable  risk  of  his  life :  the 
only  boat  at  hand  being  in  a  most  dangerously  dilapidated 
condition.  This  profusion  of  water  lilies  led  the  ladies  of 
Broadhall  to  fancifully  christen  their  pretty  lakelet,  "The 
Lily  Bowl;"  and  it  is  so  designated  on  one  map.  There  are 
some  pleasing  legends,  both  historic  and  mythical,  about  the 
Lily  Bowl;  but  I  have  not  heard  that  its  lilies  are  in  the  habit 
of  leaving  their  comfortable  beds,  where  to  mortal  view,  they 
seem  to  sleep  very  soundly,  to  "come  out,"  like  Bowery  girls, 
to  "dance  by  the  light  of  the  moon."  Graceful  dances  on  the 
lake  shore  are  too  frequent  by  daylight  for  it  to  need,  even  in 
fancy,  such  moonlit  visitations;  and,  moreover,  the  lilies  of  the 
"  Lily  Bowl  "  are  naturally  not  so  restless  as  their  less  happy 
kindred  of  the  Mummel  See. 


132          SOUVENIR  I'ERSE  AND  STORY. 


IVAN'S  CROSS. 

From  the  German  of  Albert  Knapp. 

On  (he   Kremlin's   loftiest   dome    stood   a   cross    of 

giant  height, 
Like  another  sun  in  heaven,  shedding  round  a  golden 

light  ; 
Telling  there  the  awe-struck  gazer,  "  Great  Russia 

too  relied 
In    the    fullness    of    her     power,    on     a     Saviour 

crucified  !  " 

But  when  Murat's  cuirassiers  thundered  over  Mos 
cow's  streets, 

And  the  Emperor  held  his  court  in  the  Kremlin's 
holy  .seats, 

Napoleon  looked  up  where  the  Cross  majestic  shone, 

Looking  down  in  silent  grandeur  on  his  transient, 
trembling  throne. 

He  had  torn  from  Europe's  capitals  all  that  proudest 

was  in  art, 
To  deck  Paris  with  such  glory  as  bold  robbery  can 

impart, 
And  he  swore  to  sunny  France  a  trophied  spoil  to 

bear, 
The  Cross  that  rose  so  grandly  through  the  crystal 

northern  air  ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AXD  STORY.          133 

"  Take  it  down  and  bear  it  with  us,"  then  the  victor 

Emperor  cries, 
"On  our  distant  Notre  Dame   a  memento  it  shall 

rise, 
Telling  to  our  children's  children  what  their  bold 

forefathers  braved, 
When  the  Frenchman's  Eagle-banner  over  conquered 

Moscow  waved." 

Engineers  then  climbing,  crowding,  reached  the 
Cross  that  rose  so  calm  ; 

Struck  and  wrenched,  and  downward  thrust  it,  iron 
tool  and  strong-nerved  arm, 

Till  the  noble  victim  fell,  groaning,  from  its  throned 
height, 

As  the  soaring  eagle  falls,  death-struck  in  his  up 
ward  flight. 

Yet  not  quietly  they  have  it  !     How  the  crowding 

ravens  flutter ! 
Hov'ring  round   it,  vengeful,  threat'ning  cries   they 

utter; 
Hear  them  shrieking,  moaning,  groaning,  for  their 

tearful,  woeful  loss  ; 
Say  they  in  their  heart-sick  mourning — u  Spare  our 

dear  old  friendly  Cross  !  " 

Not  the  sapper's  gleaming  axes  can  the  birds  of 
omen  scare, 

From  where,  'twixt  spoil  and  spoiler,  their  threat 
'ning  flight  they  dare  ; 


134          SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Till   the  Emperor   asks  in   wonder,  "  Do   the    birds 

lament  the  Cross  ?  " 
"  Aye,   Sire  ;    and  you   may  rue  its  gain  more  than 

\\e  now  rue  its  loss  ! '' 


When   on   many  a  field  of  horror,  shrouded  in  the 

whirling  snows, 
Soon   that   host  of  victors  stiff'ning  on  the  plains  of 

Russia  froze  ; 
Then  on   every  marble  victim,  and  on  every  snowy 

shroud, 
Crowds  of  ravens,  hoarsely  shrieking,  croaked  their 

vengeful  glee  aloud. 


EVENING  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

When  the  stars  in  golden  beauty 

Through  the  fading  twilight  gleam, 
And  the  dew-gemmed  flowerets  glisten 

In  the  moonlight's  silver  beam,— 
Then  a  sense  of  love  and  longing 

O'er  my  soul  will  softly  come 
And  my  eye  look  through  its  tear-drops 

To  its  far-off  spirit  home. 


SOUVEXIR  I'ERSE  A XI)  STORY.          135 

Rest  unbroken,  holy  silence 

Reign  o'er  all  around  me  here. 
Silently  the  ghost-like  vapors 

White  and  high  their  forms  uprear  ; 
Phantasy  with  kindly  visions 

Soothes  the  lonely  heart  of  woe, 
In  the  mountain  mist  restoring 

Love-lost  forms  of  long  ago. 

Then  the  vanished  dreams  of  childhood 

Bright  and  fair  come  back  again  ; 
Joy  descends  from  Heaven  around  me, 

Free  from  taint  of  earthly  pain. 
Wondrous  music  sweetly  cheers  me  ; 

Fairest  flowers  their  perfume  shed. 
Eager  beats  the  heart  to  clasp  them  ; 

But  the  phantom  joys  have  fled. 

Stormy  clouds  come  thronging  darkly  ; 

One  by  one  the  stars  are  lost, 
And  I  see  the  pale  moon  only, 

In  the  heavens  tempest  tost. — 
Ah,  'tis  thus  our  early  dream-life 

Fades  when  life  with  tumult  teems ; 
And  we  seek — how  long,  how  vainly — 

Phantom  joys  of  life's  young  dreams. 


LATIN 


TRANSLATION 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.          139 


DULCE  DOM UM- SWEET  HOME. 

EXPLANATORY. — Some  fifty  years  ago  I  copied  into 
my  scrapbook,  from  "  The  Euterpiad"  an  excellent 
musical  and  literary  magazine  then  published  in  New 
York,  the  Latin  student-song  printed  below.  The 
magazine  stated  that  it  had  been  sung  from  time  im- 
memorial^by  the  students  of  some  English  college 
or  at  a  school  like  Eton,  (I  now  forget  which)  as  they 
were  about  to  start  homeward  at  the  beginning  of 
vacation.  At  intervals  for  about  half  a  century  I 
have  been  on  the  point  of  attempting  a  translation  ; 
but  the  task  of  putting  a  Latin  song  into  lyrical 
and  rhymed  English,  is  by  no  means  so  attractive  a 
pastime  as  doing  the  same  by  a  German  ballad.  So 
I  procrastinated  in  this,  as  in  matters  of  more 
moment.  But  the  other  day  it  occurred  to  me  that 
if  there  are  any  dropped  stitches  in  any  life  work  of 
mine  that  I  intend  ever  to  take  up,  it  is  time  to  be 
about  it ;  and  this  translation  seemed  worth  the 
making,  as  a  souvenir  of  college  days,  if  no  more  ; 
and  I  therefore  set  about  it.  Latin  retired  to  a  back 
chamber  of  one's  brain  for  fifty  years,  with  few  and 
brief  airings,  gets  rather  stiff  in  the  joints ;  but  I 
have  managed  to  make  mine  hobble,  after  a  fashion, 
for  this  short  jaunt.  "  Daulius  advena"  in  the 
fourth  stanza,  however,  staggered  me  for  a  while. 
Who  could  this  Daulian  wanderer  be  ?  But  one 


I4o          SOUVENIR   I'ERSE  AND  STORY. 

sleepless  night,  the  door  of  that  brain's  backroom 
got  ajar,  as  it  will  in  such  hours,  and  the  answer 
popped  out.  It  is  toid  in  a  familiar,  but  horrible, 
Greek  fable  that  Philomela,  for  her  unwitting  part 
in  some  shocking  sins,  was,  as  a  mild  punishment, 
transformed  into  a  nightingale  and  condemned  to 
wail  her  penitence  through  Summer  nights  for  all 
time.  The  scene  of  this  tragic  tale  is  laid  in  the 
very  old  Grecian  city  of  Daulius  and  the  nightingale 
was,  therefore,  sometimes  called  "  The  Dauliah 
Bird."  But  why  "wanderer"?  That  was  for  the 
artistic  purpose  of  the  song  writer,  who  supposes 
the  nightingale,  after  wandering  about  all  night  with 
her  plaintive  serenade,  to  be  returning  to  her  nest  at 
daybreak,  as  the  students,  after  the  weary  toils  of 
term-time,  were  about  to  hasten  home  for  vacation. 
Thus  "Daulius  advena"  is  clearly  a  synonym — ; 
although  a  far-fetched,  and  perhaps  pedantic,  one 
— for  a  wandering  nightingale.  This  and  other 
parts  of  the  song  show  that  it  was  intended  to  be 
sung  in  the  early  morning  while  the  students  were 
waiting  for  the  coaches  that  were  to  convey  them  to 
their  homes.  And  we  can  almost  see  and  hear 
those  old  college  boys  or,  rather,  those  college  boys 
of  the  olden  time,  as  they  sing,  shout  and  stamp 
their  impatience.  The  song  forcibly  expresses  theft 
appreciation  of,  and  eagerness  for,  the  pleasures  of 
"  Sweet  Home  "  in  many  of  its  lines  ;  but  uniquely 
by  its  manifold  reiteration  of  the  fond  words  in  its 
remarkably  redundant  chorus. 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.          141 

The  Latin  of  the  song  may  not  be  of  Horatian 
purity,  and  the  translation  may  be  imperfect.  I 
therefore  print  them  together  ;  so  that  any  young 
Latin  scholar  may  better  them  if  he  thinks  it  worth 
the  trouble. 

The  song  and  its  story  are  both  interesting  in 
themselves ;  but  my  attention  was  first  drawn  to 
them  by  the  coincidence  of  the  refrain  with  that  of 
Howard  Payne's  world-famous  lyric,  whose  simple 
melody  and  naturalness  have  enabled  millions  to 
give  voice  to  that  love  of  home  which  dwells  in  all 
unseared  hearts,  and,  like  every  genuine  sentiment, 
seeks  expression  in  song.  Whether  there  was  any 
connection  beyond  mere  accidental  coincidence 
between  the  two  refrains  is  a  matter  of  curious  con 
jecture  only  ;  not  at  all  affecting  the  originality  of 
the  later  tribute  to  home,  whose  history  is  as  follows  : 

In  the  year  1823,  Miss  M.  Tree  was  playing  as  the 
prima  donna  at  a  London  theatre  in  Payne's  opera, 
"  The  Maid  of  Milan."  The  opera  had  a  long  run, 
and  Miss  Tree,  fearing  that  the  public  would  weary 
of  its  frequent  repetition,  requested  the  author  to 
enliven  it  by  introducing  a  new  song.  He  fur 
nished  "  Sweet  Home  ;  "  and  what  has  since  come  of 
it  all  the  world  knows.  Being  in  England,  he  may 
have  heard  of  the  students'  Latin  Dulce  Domum ;  but 
the  expression  "  Sweet  Home  "  is  so  natural  that  he 
may  have  heard  it  from  any,  indeed  from  many,  lips. 
In  either  case  it  merely  furnished  him  a  theme  upon 
which  he  wrought  out  an  entirely  independent 


i42          SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

melody.  It  is  still  more  probable  that  the  theme,  as 
well  as  his  treatment  of  it,  was  inspired  by  his  own 
homesickness  in  that  loneliest  of  dwelling-places  for 
the  stranger,  a  great  metropolis. 

This  explanation — so  far  as  it  relates  to  the  later 
song  of  Sweet  Home — may  seem  superfluous.  I 
make  it  lest  some  over-jealous  hypercritic  should 
fancy  that  I  am  silly  enough  to  think  that  the 
revival  of  the  old  student  home-song  will  impugn 
the  originality  of  an  American  melody  that  was 
never  known  until  the  author's  actress-friend  intro 
duced  it  in  her  play  ;  but  which  has  since,  either  in 
its  words  or  the  instrumental  music  that  represents 
them,  been  more  often  heard  than  any  other,  unless 
it  may  be,  such  national  airs  as  "God  Save  the 
Queen  "  in  England  and  the  "  Star  Spangled  Ban 
ner  "  in  America. 

Pittsfield,  Ft  bruary  4,  1895. 

DULCE  DO  MUM. 

Concinnimus,  O  Soclales ! 
Eja  !  quid  silemus  ? 

Mobile  canticum  ! 

Dulce  melos,  domum  ! 
Dulce  domum,  resonemus. 

CHORUS. — Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce  domum,  resonemus  ! 


SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY.          143 

Appropinquat  ecce  felix 

Hora  gaudiorum, 
Post  grave  tedium, 
Advenit  omnium 
Meta  petita  laborum ! 

CHORUS. — Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce  domum,  resonemus  ! 

Musa,  libros  mitte,  fessa  ; 
Mitte  pensa  dura  ; 
Mitte  negotium  ! 
Jam  clatur  otium, 
Ite  mea  metita  cura  ! 

CHORUS. —Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce  domum,  resonemus ! 

Ridet  annus  !  prata  rident ! 
Nosque  rideamus. 
Jam  repetit  domum 
Daulius  advena  ! 
Nosque,  domum  repetemus  ! 

CHORUS. — Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce  domum,  resonemus  ! 


144          SOUVENIR   VERSE  AND  STORY. 

Heus  !  rogare  fer  caballos  ! 
Eja  !  nunc  eanius  ; 
Li  men  amabile, 
Matres  et  oscula, 
Suaviter  et  repetemus  ; 

CHORUS. — Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce,  dulce  domum, 
Dulce  domum,  resonemus  ! 

Concinnimus  ad  Penates  ! 

Vox  et  audiatur  ! 
Phosphore  !  quid  jubar 
Segnius  emicans 

Gaudia  nostra  moratur  ? 

CHORUS. — Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Domum,  domum,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce,  dulce  domum  ! 
Dulce  domum,  resonemus  ! 


SWEET  HOME. 

Classmates  in  choral  song  join  we  ! 
How  can  we  silent  be  ? 

'Tis  a  noble  strain  ; 
Sweet  melody  :    Home  ! 

Sweet  home,  we  sing  again  ! 


SOUVENIR  I'EKSE  AND  STORY.          145 

CHORUS. — Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet  home,  we  shout  again  ! 

Lo,  the  happy  hours  draw  nigh,  boys  ; 
The  task-free  time  of  joys  ! 
Past  its  dragging  tedium, 
The  long-sought  end  hath  come. 
Of  all  our  labors  tiresome  ! 

CHORUS. — Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet  home,  we  shout  again  ! 

Weary  muse,  put  books  away  : 
Studious  thought  no  longer  stay  ! 
Duties  give  place  to  play  ! 
Now  rest  is  given  the  heart, 
You,  too,  my  meted  tasks,  depart ! 

CHORUS. —  Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet  home,  we  shout  again  ! 

Now  smiles  the  sky  ;  the  meadows  smile  ; 
And  we  will  gladsome  be  the  while  ! 
Ceasing  the  night  hours  to  beguile, 


146          SOUVENIR  VERSE  AND  STORY. 

The  wandering  nightingale  flies  home ; 
And  we  to  ours  will  fleetly  come  ! 

CHORUS. —  Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet  home,  we  shout  again  ! 

Ho,  there !    Bring  out  our  nags  ! 

No  more  our  going  lags, 

We  go  ;  the  threshold  dear,  to  greet, 

To  fondly  mothers'  kisses  meet : 

We  haste  to  all  home-gladness  sweet  ! 

CHORUS. — Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet  home,  we  shout  again  ! 

Paeans  to  our  Penates  raise  ! 
They  shall  hear  our  voice  of  praise  ! 
.  Why,  with  tardy-brightening  rays, 
Oh,  sluggish-dawning  Break-of-Day, 
Didst  thou  our  coming  joys  delay  ? 

CHORUS. — Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
Sweet  home,  we  shout  again  1 


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